Damages
by CindyT63
Summary: An investigation into the disappearance of a Marine turns dangerous for DiNozzo and McGee when lies, deception, and money send them to a farm in rural Virginia.  The whole team is involved in the aftermath, on the journey to recovery.  No slash.
1. Missing Marine

Disclaimer: Donald Bellisario created NCIS, and I am not, nor have I ever been, Donald Bellisario. This is pure creative indulgence.

My thanks to beta readers Bobbi D, whom I've known since I was 5, and who tells me the truth; Elizabeth (Lisa!) W, who painstakingly checked my grammar and punctuation, and James (Jamie) B, who gave my rescue and medical scenes the go-ahead. Thank you all! Any remaining errors belong to me!

.

.

.

Prologue

The cloud of dust grew steadily larger as it approached the rural farm that seemed a world away from the relentless pace of the city. Apples hung heavy on the sagging branches, neglected for another season. The evening felt cold, even for fall, as if nature itself could sense that something was amiss. The fine dirt settled after a final billowing burst as the white BMW coupe pulled into the driveway and parked.

A man emerged from the passenger side of the vehicle. His posture remained very stiff, tense, his jaw set, his face clouded. He removed his sunglasses and took in the panoramic view of the old farm where he had spent many summers in his youth. For a moment he traveled back in time, playing with his sister in the underground tunnels that ran below the barn to the old bomb shelter. They had been so paranoid, his grandparents, but he and his sister had enjoyed the summer trips greatly—the perfect place for cloak and dagger adventures. But the fantasies of childhood had died along with the laughter many years ago. He snapped back to the present as the driver's door opened and a woman stepped out of the car.

She turned slowly in a circle, taking in the scenery, her skirt and long sandy hair both shifting in the fall breeze. "Lots of memories here; lots of summers," she reminisced. "Why now, David? Why come back here now? What's the point?"

"It's been empty for two years, Dani. Probate won't last forever. This could be our last chance to take a look around. God, this is such a waste."

The young woman laughed. "There are lots of bigger wastes in the world. Oh, yeah, happy birthday, late, by the way."

The man's face darkened. "Let's go in the house. What's left of it, anyway."

"Remind me of exactly when we stopped being friends, Dave. Long time ago, right? When we stopped having anything in common. So why now? Is this about the money? What's it matter to you, Dave? You have your Marine Corps. You didn't exactly join it to get rich, right? You joined to get away from me. From Mom and Dad. That's been your life since we turned eighteen. It's not like you've ever been nostalgic about all this crap. You never wrote, never called. Why now? Marine Corps not quite how the recruiter painted it? That's not exactly my problem. I have enough of my own—not that you ever cared about that."

"Let's go in the house," he spat angrily. "You don't know anything."

"I don't know anything?" she yelled back. "I don't know anything? You think you've had it rough? Try living _my_ life!"

"Shut up!" he yelled.

"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Manly man Marine. Daddy's big boy. The Marines gave you all the brothers you'll ever need."

"SHUT UP!" he yelled again.

"What about ME? Money doesn't change me the way it changes you! Money can't give me what I lost! I never should have come here with you. You're crazy! Find your own way back. Call one of your Marine 'brothers.' Oh yeah, no cell service out here. Well too bad, I'm leaving!"

The man grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the house, grateful for the privacy of the country road. The lock box on the front door had been smashed and hung loosely by a piece of twisted metal.

"Let me go, you bastard!" she screamed as he pulled her over the threshold and into the old house. The door slammed shut, and the deadbolt clicked into place.

The man spoke slowly, his rage growing with each word, his breath heavy and thick in her ear. "I know, okay? I finally know what to do."

The woman's voice faltered. "You're scaring me. You . . . you know what?"

"Everything!" the man yelled. "The trust, the money, the lies, all of it! It's sickening!"

In the yard, a crow flew to the apple tree and set to work pecking at an apple.

A shot rang out, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. The crow flew away quickly, calling out the danger with a raucous cry.

Two more shots, then nothing. Even the crows remained quiet. A scraping sound finally punctuated the silence, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged. Several drawers and cupboards could be heard opening and shutting, followed by the screech and slam of a door.

Several hours later, a slightly disheveled sandy-haired woman stood at the window, partially cloaked by the old and yellowed lace curtains. When a puff of dust on the horizon signaled the approach of a car, the woman stepped back and let the curtains fall. The front door creaked open, the hinges protesting from lack of use. The woman stepped out carrying a white garbage bag and closed the door behind her. The screen door banged shut, its springs still working despite the rust. She walked slowly to the car, her face impassive as she waved to the lone car that passed by in the nearly dark cool evening. Her skirt fluttered in the light wind, and she grabbed at it self-consciously patting it back down with her one free hand. She placed the half-full trash bag in the trunk, slipped into the car, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and pulled out onto the country road back to town.

.

.

.

Chapter 1: Missing Marine

The day began well enough at the office. The elevator doors opened to reveal Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo holding a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a small white paper bag in the other, a broad smile on his face.

McGee caught a whiff of the coffee, and his head shot up above the half walls of his workspace. "You're in early, I mean, for you."

"Ah, McGee, good morning to you too. This is the start of a great day." He sat in his chair and inhaled his coffee deeply, closing his eyes. He took a long slow sip and sighed heavily. "Mmm. Nothing beats a hazelnut latte on beautiful fall morning." He leaned forward and peered into the white bag.

Ziva stopped typing and watched him with growing interest. "Is that from the new bakery? Where the dry cleaners used to be?"

"Indeed it is, Miss Da-_veed_," he smiled. "Almond bliss."

Ziva narrowed her eyes and appraised him carefully. "You are in a good mood. Did someone get lucky last night?" she asked brazenly.

"Lucky, yes, but not what you're thinking. It just so happens that my dad called, _to chat_. He's not planning a visit to this area, he's not in trouble with the law, he didn't remarry yet, and he didn't try to rope me into some investment plan. I feel like I won the lottery."

Tony carefully removed the almond-topped frosted pastry from the bag and lifted it to his mouth. "I'm going to enjoy every bite."

"Gear up!" Gibbs called out sharply, as he suddenly entered the bullpen. All the office banter stopped. "We've got a missing Marine!"

Tony dropped his pastry back in the bag and stood up quickly, grabbing his backpack as his team mates did the same. "Missing, Boss?"

Ziva picked up where Tony dropped off. "Missing, as in late for work… AWOL, or kidnapped? Missing, as in—"

Gibbs downed the final dregs of his tall black coffee and tossed the cup into the trash can. "Missing, as in nobody has seen or heard from him in three days. Local LEOs may have just located his car in southeast Anacostia, stripped. No plates. No body, but our Marine is a highly trained EOD tech, so he's ours."

Tony grimaced. "Ugh. Missing EOD techs are not my favorite, and missing without your car, well, that's the worst kind of missing. . . ." He fell into step behind Gibbs. "Ever see the movie, _Missing_? 1982, Jack Lemmon and Sissy Spacek. Watched it again just last week."

McGee glanced up as the elevator doors dinged and began to open. "Let's see, Tony, 1982. I would have been five years old. That movie is ancient."

Tony made a face of feigned disbelief, "You've never seen '_Missing_,' McGee?" He smiled at his own play on words, "I don't mean '_Missing McGee_,' because, you know, that would imply that someone actually cares…."

Ziva nodded as they entered the elevator. "I have seen it! Good movie, and based on a true story. Your State Department was in some hot waiter over that one, yes?"

"Ha! See?" Tony turned to Ziva. "But that's 'hot water,' not 'hot waiter.' Big difference. You've seen '_Missing_,' haven't you, Boss?"

"Yep. The first week it came out."

"What, on DVD?" Tim asked innocently.

"'Hot water,' yes, that is what I meant," Ziva agreed. "Hot _water._ That does make much more sense."

"In theaters, McGee. _Way_ back in 1982."

"Tony couldn't let the opportunity pass. "You see, McGeek, DVDs hadn't been invented yet. How old were you saying that movie is? I believe you used the word, _'ancient'_?"

Tim's face turned red as he stammered, "I, uh . . . that's not what I meant . . . ."

"Can it, McGee," Gibbs growled, almost smirking at McGee's awkwardness.

Tony beamed. What a great day.

Ziva, still looking confused, added, "I am sure I have heard Abby refer to some hot waiter. . . ."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs spoke with the local law enforcement detective at the scene. Between the arm waving and the downcast head shakes, it was evident from quite a distance that he was not happy NCIS had been called in.

"Let me spell it out for you," Gibbs began. "NCIS investigates the disappearance of any active duty service member when foul play is suspected or suspicious circumstances are present. Are you aware that the person this car belongs to is missing? And that he can assemble, disassemble, and detonate many types of bombs? In my experience, the car could possibly provide evidence on his disappearance and whereabouts. Or do you specialize in making snap judgments without getting distracted by evidence?"

The cop's expression softened slightly, his defensive posture deflated.

"Now if you'd like to make yourself useful, you could go canvass the area and interview people who occupy these buildings. See if anyone saw anything. I know they're apt to be tight-lipped around here, but you still have to give it a try." Gibbs turned away from the officer. "You check the VIN on that frame, McGee?"

"Yeah, Boss. It's a match. Looks like we have blood here, too, smeared inside the driver's door."

"Get a sample for Abby."

"On it, Boss!" McGee yelled back.

Tony shot pictures of the car from multiple angles, along with every possible view from the car's vantage point outward, just to be thorough.

Ziva took measurements and notes as Tony shot reference points.

"We've got a lot of prints to run, Gibbs," McGee called out.

"Then what's keeping you?" Gibbs barked back.

"Guess I should have gotten Gibbs a coffee, too," Tony whispered to Ziva, who smiled in return.

"You got something to say, DiNozzo?"

"No, Boss!"

.

*****NCIS*****

.

"Talk to me!" Gibbs announced as he lightly tossed another empty coffee cup into the trash by Tony's desk. Tony took the cue and leaped up, pointing the remote toward the plasma screen.

"Sergeant David Turner, age twenty-five, single. First enlisted at age seventeen, getting his parents' permission for delayed entry. Left for boot camp right out of high school, re-upped four years later. His first MOS was Aviation Ordnance, but he put in for a lateral move to Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technician as soon as he hit twenty-one, which is the minimum age for EOD."

"He passed the screen, and then, to start the actual training, he had to become eligible for access to CNWDI," McGee offered. "That's Critical Nuclear Weapons Design Information." His face reddened when he again remembered that Gibbs had been a Marine. "Which . . . of course . . . you already knew, Boss."

Tony smiled at McGee's discomfort. He might be gaining confidence overall, but one look from Gibbs had him babbling as much as it ever had. Tony took back the control. "As an EOD technician, he would have been trained to perform various duties, including locating, accessing, identifying, rendering safe, neutralizing, and disposing of hazards from just about any kind of explosive—foreign or domestic—ranging from conventional to high yield explosives."

Gibbs nodded, so Tony continued. "Specifically, he's had advanced electronics, tactics, specialized demolition, post-blast investigation, IEDs, WMDs, and McGee's favorite, robotics."

McGee took a deep breath, seeing the opening Tony had carved for him. "He seems to be a solid Marine. Good at his job, squeaky clean background. He was a high school football player, went to state in track every year in high school, decent grades. More recently, his performance ratings have all been strong, tends to score in the top 10 percent in his classes, and generally liked by all."

Gibbs looked squarely at McGee. "Generally?"

McGee nodded. "He apparently has a sister from whom he's a bit estranged."

"Reason?" Gibbs probed.

"Turner's friends aren't sure, but they said it had something to do with money. She had it and he didn't."

"We know why?" Gibbs asked.

McGee rushed to his computer. "Not yet, but I'll find out."

"Ziva?" Gibbs turned to her. "Got something for me?"

She took the remote from Tony's hand and stepped forward. "Sergeant Turner grew up in rural Virginia, in a town called Berryville, which is not far from Leesburg. Both parents were both killed in a car crash just over four years ago." She clicked the remote and brought up a newspaper article regarding the crash.

"According to Turner's best friend in his unit, a Sergeant Aaron Findley, Turner and his twin sister, Danielle, were close as children, but became estranged, even before the parents' death. He seemed to think she had always been favored, spoiled, and that he had been expected to change his plans to accommodate hers. Friends say that is why he enlisted early, and his parents supported it. He left for boot camp one week after graduation." She brought up a picture of the sister on the plasma screen.

"Parents died four years ago? That's when he switched to EOD," Gibbs noted.

"One month after their deaths, actually. Sergeant Turner's friends say his attitude toward her changed recently, sounded more hostile, but they said he would not talk about it."

"Got anything more on the sister?"

"Danielle is unmarried, has no criminal record, just the occasional speeding ticket. She currently resides in the family's Berryville home. She is not answering her cell phone, and her voice mail box is full. She has no land line. She is a freelance photographer for food magazines, including, most recently, DC Foodie and Washington Foodie Magazine, where she goes by Danielle Elias, the latter being her middle name. The only other family in the DC area was their grandparents, who are now deceased. The grandmother died eight years ago and the grandfather died two years ago. They owned a home and a working farm, outside Berryville, which is currently unoccupied. As children, Sergeant Turner and Danielle spent summers with the grandparents when the parents went on trips."

"Farm in Berryville. Sounds like a game on Facebook," Tony chuckled until Gibbs' open hand made firm contact with the back of Tony's head. "Thank you, Boss. Shutting up."

Ziva continued, "They had accumulated a lot of debt, and the house and property are still tied up in probate."

Gibbs nodded. "McGee, get warrants to look at both Turners' financials. That sister probably didn't get rich as a freelancer. We're not seeing the whole story here.

"On it, Boss," McGee headed to the elevator.

"DiNozzo, track down this Danielle. Could be she's missing too."

Tony nodded and scooped up his backpack.

"Watch yourself!" Gibbs called after him. "We don't need a repeat of our last missing EOD tech."

Tony shuddered, remembering that case all too well. "Watching my six, Boss. Got it."

"Ziva, I want you to pull phone records for both of them. I want to know the last time either of them talked to anyone. See who David's been talking to. I'm going to go check with Abby."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

"Give me some good news, Abby!" Gibbs yelled over the top of her loud music, his hands firmly over his ears.

She turned it down quickly. "I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first, the good news, right? Well, it's good for us, but maybe not so good for the Sergeant, but if it helps us find him, then it is good for—"

"Just tell me, Abby," Gibbs said gently. "The good, then the bad."

"Soften the blow, right? Okay, well," she gestured toward her computer screen, "the blood in the car was definitely Sergeant Turner's. We have a blood type match and a DNA match. Several of the fingerprints from the scene also belong to Turner, which is no surprise because it's his car. I was able to identify three others, however."

She brought up three sets of fingerprints on her screen and ran her fingers lightly over the keyboard. "One set belongs to a Sergeant Aaron Findley, who serves in his unit, and the other two belong to criminals in the juvenile database: Christopher "Spider" Bolt, and Deric "DC" Cummings."

"What's the bad news, Abby?"

"They're minors. Spider is sixteen, and DC is only fifteen. These guys are purely small-time, Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "Well, maybe they saw something, Abbs. We'll have them brought in for questioning. That's good work." He kissed her gently on the cheek and headed for the elevator.

Abby smiled broadly as she twirled her way back to her stereo and cranked her music back to its ear-splitting level.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs returned to the bullpen with a fresh coffee, ready for the next round. "We got two hits on fingerprints. Two small-time juveniles. Local LEOs are bringing them in for questioning. We also have confirmation that that was Turner's blood in the car. You get anything yet?"

"Actually, yes, Boss," McGee piped up. "Nothing of note in David Turner's bank records. Guy pretty much shows the same deposits and withdrawals and checks each month, but some very unusual transactions in Danielle's. Check this out." He brought showed the images from his monitor on the big plasma screen. "The day after the twins' last birthday, Danielle deposited $1.2 million into her savings account."

"1.2 million?" Gibbs repeated.

"And then, five days later, she started withdrawing amounts ranging from $100,000 to $200,000 every few days."

"Where'd it come from? And what's the timing of those withdrawals in relation to David's disappearance?"

McGee typed a few more lines then looked up at Gibbs. "The withdrawals started two weeks prior to David's disappearance."

"I guess that rules out ransom."

"Boss, we'll need to get a closer look to find out more about that deposit. These bank statements won't tell us anything about it except the amount."

"And where the hell is the sister? Anybody heard from DiNozzo yet?"

Ziva hung up the phone. "According to the supervisor I spoke to at the phone company, who reluctantly agreed to cooperate, given that I told them that the phone owners might be in danger, I can tell you that David stopped using his phone the day of his disappearance. The last call dialed on his phone was to his sister the day he disappeared. Danielle has not used her phone for two weeks. Danielle's last known phone call was made from her home address. The phone company supervisor said she would email me the most recent call records. Here is the file now. Opening it… now…. okay. Transferring it to the plasma. See? The last phone call she received was from her brother, two weeks before his attempt to call her on the day he disappeared. But look at all these phone calls on Danielle's records." Ziva highlighted a number that appeared eleven times during the two week period surrounding her birthday.

"Checking that number, Boss," McGee offered, typing quickly on his keyboard. "Here we go. That number belongs to a William Goldman, an Estate Lawyer in Leesburg, Virginia."

"Bet he knows something about that money. Get that warrant, too, McGee."

Gibbs' phone rang. "Gibbs," he answered. "About time you checked in, DiNozzo. Nothing? Okay. You contact those magazines she's freelanced for?" Gibbs shook his head to Ziva and McGee. "We're getting warrants and putting a BOLO out on her Danielle's car. Listen, DiNozzo, Danielle put over a million dollars in the bank a few weeks ago, and has been making large withdrawals as recently as yesterday, but her phone has been shut off for two weeks. See if you can take a look at video footage of Danielle at the bank both making the deposit and making those withdrawals. I want to know if she was coming in alone, what car she drove, who was watching her, anything. See what else you can find out, and we'll meet you there in Leesburg at the First American Bank on. . . ," he looked at Ziva and snapped his fingers.

"Fifth and Vine," she filled in. "Bank manager's name is Stella Burke."

"Fifth and Vine. Ask for Stella Burke. Something's not right, and it all seems to be there in Leesburg. Right. Couple hours."

"Gibbs, without the paperwork, the bank does not have to show Tony any of the bank video."

Gibbs flashed his lopsided grin. "The manager is a woman. And it's DiNozzo. Need I say more?"

Ziva laughed.

McGee rolled his eyes.

Gibbs had just returned his cell phone to his pocket when his desk phone rang. "Gibbs . . .," he answered. He nodded. "Okay. Send them up." He hung up the phone and headed for the elevator. "I'll be talking with our young delinquents, but my gut is telling me this has nothing to do with them. But maybe they saw something. You never know. I'll be in interrogation."


	2. Twins

Author's note: Many thanks for the reviews and all the "Alerts" and "Favorites"!

.

.

.

Chapter 2: Twins

.

Anthony DiNozzo knew how to charm. And he had put that skill to use at the bank. When Gibbs pulled up to the bank with Ziva and McGee, Tony's one hundred-watt smile told the story. He held up a flash drive and approached the car. "Come on in. Stella's going to let us use their board room. McGee, give me your cap. I promised her an NCIS cap, you know, for helping us." His smile only sparkled more.

McGee glowered.

"You bring your laptop, McGee?"

"Yes, why, did you promise to give her that, too?" he answered testily.

Gibbs handed Tony the warrant for copies of the records showing activity in Danielle's account and the subsequent advance requests for the unusually large cash withdrawals.

Tony delivered the paperwork to the bank manager with a wink before leading the team through the lobby to the spacious board room.

McGee plugged his laptop into the bank's digital projector while Tony lowered the screen.

Tony sat at the big conference table and took control of the wireless mouse. He fast-forwarded to the correct part of the video footage. "Right there in grainy black and white, we see Ms. Danielle Turner, here, yesterday, getting her giant bag full of cold, hard, cash. Stella and the tellers—hey, doesn't that sound like a great name for a band? Anyway—the tellers said Danielle has been wearing the same two outfits for the past several weeks, which is a change in behavior. They also said that her makeup has become very heavy, and that her voice sounds different—like she has a bad cold." He clicked the mouse to show the next clip. "And here she is again, five days ago. She has to come in personally and sign the bank's Large Cash Withdrawal notice every time she wants to take out large amounts of cash."

"Large Cash Withdrawal notice?" Ziva asked. "It is her money, why can she not just come take it out when she chooses?"

"Are you kidding me? They can't just hand over $100,000 any time someone wants their money! The bank's job is to _invest money_ not store it in their vault. That's how they stay in business. And to be honest, Danielle should be investing hers! Has she never heard of TAXES? Anyway, banks need time to get large amounts of cash. It's all spelled out in your demand deposit contract, which, from the sound of things, you never read. They can get it faster here in Leesburg, than in, say, Berryville, because this is a main branch. "

Tony continued to show the security footage clips, working backward until the day Danielle came in to deposit the funds. "She comes in at different times, no discernible pattern. They could require more than just the three days, but since she deposited such a huge amount of money in a _savings account_, of all things, they waive their seven-day allowance. They want to keep her happy, and they had her sign papers that she was aware of the loss risks of carrying around that kind of cash rather than checks or multiple checks. Stella said they gave the her the standard "fraud alert" form that describes the scams that are popular against people who suddenly come into lots of money, and of course the elderly, which didn't apply to her. Basically, they just want to keep her as a customer, Boss, but cover their butts, too."

Gibbs nodded. The he shook his head. Something was needling him, but he couldn't quite zero in on it. "McGee, bring up that footage of Sergeant Turner from four days ago. That's the last time we have any record of his whereabouts. He withdrew forty dollars from an ATM on base."

"Sure, Boss." McGee switched out flash drives and put the picture on the screen. "Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary here."

Tony stared at the picture, his eyes narrowing as a frown began to form. "Huh. Do you have those earlier pictures of this guy?"

"Sure."

"Let me see them—oldest to newest—will you, McGee?"

"What are you thinking, Tony?" Ziva asked.

"Hang on . . . go back to his first picture of him." Tony walked closer to the plasma screen and pointed at the face. "Look at his face. Carefully."

"Okay . . . ?" McGee responded tentatively.

"We have all seen this picture before, Tony," Ziva added.

"Now two shots ahead," Tony continued, ignoring his co-workers. "See?"

Ziva and McGee each tilted their head slightly.

Gibbs nodded. "Good catch, DiNozzo."

"And now the most recent picture—the one from the ATM on base. Tell me you don't see that!"

Tony turned to face the team. "The guy's face! You don't see itt? He's waxed his eyebrows! A Marine that waxes his eyebrows? Did you ever wax your eyebrows when you were a Marine, Boss?" He looked at Gibbs and quickly looked away, adding, "No, of course you didn't. Never mind."

"What does waxing have to do with the case?" Ziva asked. "Lots of hairy men wax. You of all people should know that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony said indignantly. "Italians are supposed to be hairy." He turned to McGee and looked him over appraisingly. "What about you, Mr. McMetrosexual? Do you wax? Now that you've discovered your svelte inner GQ? Nice tie, by the way. Armani?"

McGee began to blush fiercely. "Fiorio."

"Oooh, my little Timmy is all grown up," Tony bragged.

"I wax," Ziva added, "but not my eyebrows…," she toyed, turning slightly away from Tony.

Tony gave Ziva a provocative sidelong glance. "Really…."

Gibbs smirked again, almost ignoring the flirting. "So what does it mean? We have a Marine with little money waxing, and a rich sister wearing the same clothes every day and carrying around a lot of cash. And we can't reach of either one of them."

Eager for the subject to shift back to the Marine, McGee put the first and last pictures of Sergeant Turner up on the screen together, side by side, for comparison.

Tony scrutinized the two pictures, trying to get into the young man's mind. "Now why would this guy suddenly decide to do this? New girlfriend?" He glanced at McGee, an eyebrow arched. "New boyfriend?"

McGee rolled his eyes. "Maybe he started cross dressing, too, Tony, I don't know. You have more experience with transvestitites than I do."

"Touché, McWitty. And she was a transsexual, not a transvestite." He cringed with the memory of that particular kiss . . . .

After a soft knock on the door, Stella poked her head in the room and entered. "We have those records for you now, Agent DiNozzo," she said with a lilt in her voice. "The original documents are scanned and then sent off site for storage. They would take much longer to obtain, so these are copies of the electronic records we keep on our secure database."

Tony took the CD. "Why, thank you, Miss Burke. The federal government thanks you, too."

She eyeballed Gibbs appreciatively. "Are you going to introduce me to your friends?"

Tony tried not to show his shock at her overt interest in his boss, but he very intentionally introduced McGee and Ziva first, and saved her obvious favorite, Gibbs, for last.

"Ma'am," Gibbs gave her a boyish smile, accompanied by a polite nod.

She stepped across the room and handed Gibbs her card. "If you need any more information, day or night, you give me a call. Cell number is on the back."

Tony and Ziva exchanged a quick look of bemusement while Tony prayed Gibbs couldn't hear his thoughts.

As the bank manager left the room, McGee put the new documents up on the screen. "Here we go. It looks like the funds came from an annuity from Amerity Insurance that terminated on Danielle's twenty-fifth birthday."

"Trust fund," Tony announced knowingly. "Big trust funds from settlements go into supervised bank trust accounts and annuities that terminate at a specific time. So, Danielle had a trust fund and David didn't. I bet that could kick sibling rivalry up a notch."

Gibbs nodded his understanding. "That's why she was in such close contact with that estate lawyer." He turned to his team. "My gut is telling me that when we find the sister, we find the brother. DiNozzo, McGee, finish up here then drive out to Berryville and search Danielle's home. Ziva, you're with me. We're going to go talk with Mr. Goldman and then head to the courthouse if we need to find out more about the settlement, or get more warrants. And DiNozzo, give Ms. Burke your own hat."

Gibbs was already out the door when Tony called after him, "I really think she'd rather have yours!"

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Tony stood in Danielle Turner's house, staring at the pad of paper by her computer. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Gibbs. "Yeah, Boss," he began, "nothing much here, no sign of a struggle and her car isn't here. Her clothes are, but it looks like all her makeup is gone, which is weird, since she's wearing a lot of makeup in those pictures from the bank. We do have a handwritten note that says, 'Dave - Grandpa's, 4:00 Wednesday,' but there's no date. I don't see any sign of her camera equipment, either. Probably with her or in her car."

McGee stood at the kitchen counter, looking over the stacks of US Mail that he had picked up off the floor under the mail slot in the front door.

"From the amount of snail mail that was piling up, she's hasn't been here for a couple of weeks. Over a dozen newspapers are stacked up on the porch, too. McGee's going to check her computer now."

McGee logged on without difficulty and opened Danielle's internet browser, while Tony continued to talk to Gibbs. "It doesn't look like she uses an online calendar, so that's no help. Hang on, though, McGee's finding some emails from her brother. And emails _to_ her brother. Lots from her lawyer, lots from one Shawna Ballard—whoa—looks like she had a girlfriend, Boss, not a boyfriend. Lots of distressed email from the girlfriend. 'Why won't you answer your phone?' 'Why haven't you written me back?' 'Why are you doing this?' What do you want to bet Shawna sent Danielle a birthday card? Let me do a little dumpster diving." Tony gestured for McGee to check the waste basket by the computer desk.

McGee glared at Tony as he began to pick through the papers in the trash, glad that he was wearing rubber gloves. "Here it is! Shawna Ballard." He showed the envelope to Tony, who pointedly avoided touching it, even with gloves.

"Got an address for you, Boss. 16524 Edgewater Avenue, Denver, Colorado. McGee can probably get us a phone number, right, McGee?"

McGee nodded and returned to the computer. "I'll forward all this to Abby."

"Learn anything from the lawyer?" Tony asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs answered. "You were right about the money being from a trust. And this case just got a lot more complicated. Danielle is David's identical twin."

"I'm sorry, Boss, we must have a bad connection. I thought you just said that Danielle was David's identical twin. Last time I checked, oh. . . oh. . . , wow. . . , another transsexual?" Tony asked. "So maybe she's not a lesbian. What would he . . . she . . . be? Besides confused."

"What she is, DiNozzo, is a genetic match to David. Danielle was born Daniel Elias Turner, identical twin to David. Daniel sustained a crush injury to the groin at the age of 18 months in a freak accident when in the care of a nanny by the name of Consuela Cabrera. She's Venezuelan. Got sent back there after the incident. Listen, DiNozzo, I'm going to hand the phone over to Ziva. She'll fill you in."

Ziva took the phone. "Daniel survived, obviously, but he suffered severe and irreparable damage. The parents had to decide whether to raise Daniel as a traumatically neutered boy until he might be old enough for reconstructive surgery and male hormones, or raise him as a seemingly normal girl. They decided on the latter, agreeing with the developmental psychiatrist serving on the treatment team to never let either child know as they were growing up that now-Danielle had ever been male. Clearly, these were all very difficult decisions. Highly controversial, so it was all done very secretively."

"What'd you find out about that trust? Was that a settlement from a lawsuit?" Tony asked.

"According to Danielle's lawyer and court documents from 1990, the incident was settled out of court with Amerity Insurance Company, who insured the firm who hired and later fired Cabrera after the 1989 accident. There was $40,000 put in a court-supervised bank trust account here in Leesburg. The much larger amount, over a million dollars for damages, was put in that annuity until Danielle reached the age of twenty-five. Nobody could touch the money in the trust without written court approval until the trust terminated on Danielle's twenty-fifth birthday. The lawyer said the trust money was earmarked for her initial medical and surgical costs, her hormone therapy to begin at age twelve, and her reconstructive surgery to be completed after Danielle turned eighteen, which was when her parents planned to tell her about her birth origins."

"But her pictures, Ziva. She looks so . . . so feminine. Well, not the most recent pictures, but everyone can have a bad hair day—or week. Especially if you're a chick-slash-dude with no, you know—working plumbing."

"Do not be an idiot, Tony. Sexuality is not just from the waist down."

"Mine is." Tony countered, glancing briefly toward his belt.

"She never went through male adolescence because her body didn't produce any male hormones. She is smaller, shorter, and has very female proportions."

Tony shuddered. "If they were going to go through all the surgeries and hormone therapy, why not just keep him a boy? I don't understand why they would do this."

"I do not think these issues were as public twenty-five years ago, even in America. I am sure the parents thought it was the best decision at the time. It is tragic."

Tony continued. "And why the hell would David be waxing his eyebrows? We've got a guy made into a woman, who's looking more manly. And he's a guy who's looking more feminine. It's crazy!"

"I am giving the phone back to Gibbs. Be careful, Tony, this case keeps changing."

"Hey Boss," Tony began when Gibbs got back on the phone. "Was the nanny's name seriously, Consuela, from Venezuela?"

"DiNozzo—" Gibbs growled.

"McGee and I are going to head out to the grandparents' farm farther down Highway 7 and take a look around when we've wrapped up here since that note mentions going there with David."

"Alright, if you're heading out to the farm, I'll have Ziva give this Shawna Ballard a call. I want to go talk to the local cops, and we'll be showing both David's and Danielle's pictures around the area near the bank—see if anyone around here has seen them. You keep me posted." He snapped his phone shut.


	3. Dead Man Frozen

Thank you for the reviews, alerts and favorites! Sorry for the mix-up with chapters - the document manager decided to act up! Thank you for your patience!

.

.

.

Chapter 3: Dead Man Frozen

"Wish we had gotten something to eat before we headed clear out here to the middle of nowhere. I'm starving," McGee lamented.

Tony reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a package of Nutter Butters. "Here, McHungry. Eat."

McGee examined the package for tampering. "What did you do to it?"

Tony splayed his right hand across his chest, feigning hurt. "Nothing. Here, take it."

"Seriously? Thanks, Tony. You want some?"

Tony frowned. "Nah, it will just make me thirsty. Thirsti_er_."

McGee opened the package, the aroma making his mouth water. "That's actually really thoughtful, Tony. I'm not sure what to think, but thanks." McGee shoved one in his mouth and enjoyed it loudly.

"Don't thank me too much—it's from your top desk drawer."

McGee coughed abruptly, littering the dashboard with crumbs. "You stole these from my desk?"

Tony shook a finger at McGee. "Well, technically, now that you're eating them, I stole them _for_ you, not _from_ you. Nothing tastes better than stolen cookies when you're hungry, does it, McGee?" he asked rhetorically.

McGee closed his eyes and shook his head, mumbling, "Thief."

"Yeah, don't suppose you have some stolen Gatorade in that pack of yours. I could sure go for something to drink. What is the world coming to? I haven't seen any convenience stores out here, no diners, no gas stations. Nothing since we turned off Highway 7."

McGee agreed. "I lost cell service about ten minutes ago." He frowned at his so-called smartphone, which now only functioned as a clock. "Did it ever occur to you that I might have been saving these Nutter Butters for myself for another time? Does it occur to you that you should stay out of other people's desks?"

"Ha!" Tony snorted. "Bet you're glad I didn't though, right? And if you had stolen for me the way I stole for you, then I'd have something to drink, wouldn't I? Rule 69: Always have what your partner needs."

"There's no rule 69! You made that up!"

Tony leaned forward and craned his neck both left then right. "Houses are pretty few and far between, too. Grandma and Grandpa Turner must have liked it that way. Can you imagine living in the same house for 62 years? I think my ass would start to mold."

"Thanks for the image," McGee said derisively. He downed the final cookies anyway.

"Just sayin…," Tony added, pointing ahead and to the right, back off the road. "That's got to be it up there. Man, it's dusty out here. Sixty two years? _Come on_."

Tim pointed to the darkening sky. "Bet you five bucks this is all mud by the time we drive out of here."

"No bet," Tony answered as he pulled into the long driveway. "I don't see a car, but let's go check it out."

"Mind if I take the lead, Tony?"

"You? Why? I'm the senior field agent."

"Yeah, I know, but I need to, you know, take the lead some times. You mind?"

Tony became serious, and he nodded his consent. "Okay, McGoo, I'll hang back. There's probably nobody here anyway, from the looks of things." He removed his suit jacket and carefully placed it on the back seat. He loosened his tie and gave McGee an encouraging nod. "Now you look like the lead and I look like the back up."

McGee headed toward the front door while Tony remained midway between the car and the steps to the broad front porch.

McGee noticed the smashed lockbox that had been placed over the doorknob. He turned back to Tony. "Psst!"

Tony stood up straighter and prepared to draw his gun, on higher alert. He watched McGee knock on the door and listening.

McGee knocked again and identified himself. "Hello? Anybody here? This is Special Agent McGee with NCIS." McGee peered through the lace curtains. "Tony, I see what looks like a lot of blood on the carpet in there." McGee drew his gun.

Tony's eyes scanned the property, the fields, the tree line, and the outbuildings. He caught a flicker in his peripheral vision, and he saw a woman walking silently toward a large barn.

"Over here, McGee! Excuse me? Danielle Turner?" he called out as he began to walk in her direction, gun drawn but lowered. She quickened her pace to a trot. "Ms. Turner, I'm with NCIS. We only want to talk to you!

"McGee—the barn!" he yelled over his shoulder as the woman took off in an all-out sprint, beating Tony to the barn by several seconds. The barn was pitch black inside, full of old hay and the smell of cattle long since gone. Tony had his gun at the ready as he waited at the door, out of sight, for McGee.

Tony put a finger to his lips, still breathing hard, while he pointed into the barn. He signaled their search pattern to McGee and then they entered the barn.

The structure proved to be quite large, with many stalls to check.

Nothing.

"Over here!" McGee whispered loudly in the old building.

Tony made his way to his partner's location with care.

McGee pointed to the rusted sign which read "Fallout Shelter," nailed to a large hatch in the floor.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Tony whispered back.

"That . . . the sister isn't acting like an innocent person?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "No shit, McSherlock. No, listen, I'm a fast runner, but that chick runs like Joey Galloway! I'm thinking we shouldn't underestimate her again. She's making full use of that Y chromosome, that's for sure. You got my six?"

McGee nodded confidently, taking a final glance around the barn as Tony slowly opened the hatch and winced as the old hinges creaked.

Tony peered down the open narrow stairway to the darkened basement below. He kept his gun trained down the stairs as he withdrew his small black Maglite from the belt pouch on his left hip. He held the light at shoulder height, shining it downward as he descended the stairs, stepping softly, first one foot, then gradually shifting his weight to the other, as he listened for movement from below. He cautiously and methodically swept the light from left to right, and both up and down, cringing inside at the combination of both mildew and other less familiar, cloying smells. Rats, too, for sure. Tony shoved the thought aside and kept vigilant, moving with a seasoned cop's expertise and precision, dodging the thick cobwebs that hung from the beams and side railings.

McGee followed close behind, his gun aimed up the stairs, even though both men were certain the woman had fled to the basement. They couldn't assume she was alone. Assumptions could prove fatal.

At the bottom of the stairs, Tony paused and carefully checked both to the right and to the left, ducking below the long pull chain for the single, bare bulb at the bottom of the stairs. The last thing he wanted to do was flood his position with light and blind himself. As Tony moved around to the right, sweeping his light into the dark corners, McGee guarded their flank, his attention still focused on the open hatch at the top, as he inched his way down the stairs.

Tony returned to the bottom of the stairs, and signaled to McGee that he had cleared the area to the right of the stairs. Tony worked his way around to the left, behind mountains of web-shrouded boxes and the kinds of oddities that used to lurk in the shadows of his grandfather's attic. He skirted a rat trap with an overly ripe mouse corpse in it. "Charming," he whispered under his breath. He passed a large chest freezer, noting the size, and continued sweeping his light until he reached the back row of boxes. He quietly walked back to McGee's location and pulled the chain on the light. He pointed back toward the chest freezer and mimed to McGee that he was going to open it. The grime didn't appear to be as thick or old as on the other items in the basement, and given its size, it needed to be eliminated as a hiding place.

McGee nodded and aimed his gun at the dirty, chipped, white top of the freezer, keeping the stairs in his periphery.

Tony held his gun at the ready in his right hand and cautiously lifted the lid and peered in. His face contorted into a grimace and a small derisive "ugh" formed in his throat. "We got a body," he whispered, "Looks like our missing Marine—kind of—with a bad case of frostbite. This one didn't just climb in here, that's for sure."

McGee looked around anxiously. "What now?"

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs slammed his cell phone down on the Leesburg diner's table for the third time. "Come on, DiNozzo," he grumbled.

"Maybe they are in a dead zone?" Ziva inquired as she ate the last bite of her turkey sandwich. "Excuse me, Miss?" She flagged down their waitress. "How is the cell phone reception in Berryville?"

"Spotty," she answered. Not too bad if you're out in the open, but in a building or a car, you're taking your chances." She topped up Gibbs' coffee cup.

Gibbs threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Seems like they ought to be able to find a landline, wouldn't you think?"

"You are worried."

"I shouldn't be. They're together." He whipped his phone open again. "I need to update Vance."

"And then if Tony and McGee have still not called, we can just drive out there ourselves, yes?"

Gibbs took a deep breath and had another sip of his coffee, nodding. He punched in Vance's number and briefed him on the most recent developments, including their findings at the lawyer's office, the bank. Gibbs also relayed the information Tony had given during his last check-in, and the information he and Ziva had obtained from talking with Danielle's girlfriend and both the magazine editors she freelanced for: Neither Shawna Ballard nor the editors had seen or heard from Danielle since a few days after her birthday. They knew nothing about Danielle's disappearance. Shawna had said that Danielle had been shocked when David called and asked her to pick him up and go out to the Grandparents' old home to talk. Gibbs also told Vance that he'd been unable to make contact with DiNozzo or McGee for several hours and that he and Ziva were going to head out to Berryville as a precaution.

Gibbs swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed some money on the table. "Let's go."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Tony's eyes darted around the room; he gestured for McGee to return to the bottom of the stairs.

"We look again, more carefully. Dead Man Frozen is never a good sign. As a kid, I always wanted a brother or sister. Now I'm not so sure."

McGee tightened his grip on his SIG and positioned himself where he could watch both up the stairs and to the area beyond, where Tony had first searched. "Be careful, Tony."

Tony flashed his dangerous smile. "You just stay alert, McGee; we know she came down here." He again worked his way to the far and much darker end of the basement, this time sweeping his Mag light very thoroughly from top to bottom, checking for any sign of where their missing woman had gone.

_Hello . . . . What have we here?_ As Tony reached the far end of the basement, he noticed that the boxes weren't completely flush with the back wall. One large box stuck out a little farther, and Tony eased it out with his foot as he shined his light behind it. The light revealed a tunnel large enough to easily accommodate an adult. His light revealed some twists and turns that lead to darkness. _Dammit—a rabbit hole._ He took a deep breath, frustrated that their best lead in the case had escaped.

As Tony moved to rejoin McGee and form a new plan, he heard a blast far down the tunnel. Before he could react, a shower of dust and dirt hit him full in the face. His hands instinctively flew to his eyes, and his flashlight dropped winking out as it hit the concrete floor. He both coughed and spat dirt from his mouth.

"Tony?" McGee called out. "You okay?"

Tony backed out from behind the boxes, coughing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Stay back, McGee!"

"Tony—what's—"

"Bomb!" Another loud boom, much closer, shook the whole barn. Chips of ceiling material and splintered wood rained down, and the pull chain to the overhead light danced wildly. A few precariously placed boxes fell from atop high stacks.

"Get out, McGee!" Tony blindly headed back toward McGee as another, closer, bomb exploded. Tony reached out to feel his way. Tears streamed from his tortured eyes and washed away enough debris that he could squint as he aimed for the stairs.

His stomach lurched as he staggered toward the freezer: he saw a tiny, red light blinking rapidly on the floor under the large appliance.

"Another one!" he yelled hoarsely. "Go—go—go!" He sprinted past the freezer toward McGee, who reached out to help his partner. Tony whirled McGee around and shoved him up the staircase ahead of him. "Run!"

Half way up the stairs, even as McGee's arm reached out to the hatch opening at the top, Armageddon descended.

The explosion came with the intensity and force of a freight train just as Tony yelled "Get down!" and launched himself at McGee in a flying tackle. The blast lifted both men from the stairs and propelled them off the side of the narrow staircase as a deafening roar took over the world.


	4. Stuck

Author's note: Thank you again for the reviews, favorites, alerts, and messages! Please enjoy Chapter 4.

.

.

.

Chapter 4: Stuck

.

McGee woke up in increments, first coughing and then gagging on what tasted and smelled very much like rusty chalk mixed with ammonia. His ears rang and buzzed strangely, but he noticed the sound of dripping water. He licked his dry lips and spat out as much of the foul taste in his mouth as he could, feeling revoltingly nauseated. It registered that his head and back hurt. Something had him pinned down in a big puddle of cold water. He couldn't really get a full breath, and he could only lift his head an inch or two. Where was he again? What on earth? Why was he lying face down in a half inch of water under something heavy? He attempted a mental inventory of events.

Memories flooded back in a rush.

_Danielle._

_The hatch. Basement._

_Bomb! _

_Tony . . . ._

Just as McGee thought the name, he realized he wasn't on stairs any more. He seemed to be on a flat surface. Something very cold, wet, hard, and most unforgiving.

_Concrete. _

The basement floor. And the weight pinning him to the floor felt warm and kind of soft. Somewhat wet.

_Ew._

_Tony_.

He remembered Tony plowing into him, shielding him from the blast. Tony had yelled for him to get down, but it had been too late. A classic Tony tackle. It seemed Tony was still protecting him, even though the explosions had apparently stopped. McGee remembered that there had been another explosion from above them; it seemed the whole barn had collapsed, but the immediate threat seemed to be over. _Wow. I almost blew up today. Unreal. Tony probably just saved my life. Crap. I'll never live that down . _

"Good tackle, Tony," McGee grunted with effort. "You can get off me now," he said aloud as he imagined all the 'saving McGee's ass' comments he would be hearing for the next month. Or year. Maybe forever.

The ringing in McGee's ears had subsided, but the roaring in his head remained. Water dripped from various places, and the tons of settling rubble surrounding them crackled and popped ominously, but there was no answer from Tony, who grew heavier by the minute.

Already feeling claustrophobic in their now very cramped pocket of the basement, McGee felt doubly oppressed by Tony's weight pushing down on him—squeezing the air from his lungs. The whole barn had essentially descended to the basement. Crushing him. Smothering him. The relative darkness didn't help, but at least McGee's eyes were adjusting. Shards of dim light filtered in through the wreckage above him, and some of the swirling grit in the air had settled on the debris surrounding them.

The warm blanket of weight that was Tony didn't move. "Uh, DiNozzo? Do you mind? Ha, ha, you can get up now." McGee began to squirm, his movements hindered by the dead weight. He felt the slow tickle of water running down his cheek and swiped at it with the back of his hand, smearing a sticky wetness.

"Uh, Tony, seriously. I . . . I think I'm bleeding. I don't know how bad it is. Man, you ever think of losing a couple pounds?"

He felt more blood run down his cheek and drip off his chin to land with a delicate splash in the water on the floor. His stomach did a quick flip. Stark red liquid smeared across the dusty white of his right hand. "Quit the clowning around. Seriously." He was rewarded with a thin cough and moan near his right ear.

"Tony?" McGee's pitch rose as his heart leapt into his throat.

No answer.

His volume grew louder as panic crept in. "DiNozzo, answer me!"

The next moan triggered a louder cough, followed by a hoarse whisper. "'Gee?"

"Jeez, Tony, you scared the crap out of me," McGee blurted. "Get off me, will you?" Then, softer, "You are okay, aren't you?"

"Think so . . . . Maybe . . . ." Tony began, but as soon as he tried to move, he choked back a yell. "Oh shit," he spat between clenched teeth. "Maybe not . . . . Not."

"Tony?"

"McGee . . . , give me a minute," Tony growled, his voice tight with a tone McGee had never heard before. Fear? He felt his partner move slightly, followed by a gasp. He heard a hitch in Tony's breathing. "We . . . I . . . we got a problem . . . ."

McGee felt the tickle of another drop of blood hit him in the back of the head, tracing its way down his scalp, and the realization hit him_. That's Tony's blood._ "Yeah, I guess it's you that's bleeding. Can . . . can you maybe slide, you know, off me so I can take a look? Get help if we need it?"

"You . . . you okay, McGee?"

"Yeah, fine. You, uh, you know . . . . You kind of saw to that . . . , but now you're kind of squishing me. C-can you let me up?"

Tony shifted his weight again slightly, but cried out sharply in pain, "No can do, . . . Tim." He panted heavily before continuing. "I'm stuck."

_He called me Tim. Bad sign. Really bad._ McGee tried twisting to get a glimpse of Tony, but a drop of blood trickled into his eye. "Oh, Jeez . . . ." Tony's breathing sounded heavy so close to McGee's ear and he felt another wave of concern for his friend.

"Stuck? Stuck how?"

"Stuck . . . as in, _stuck_. You're going to have to crawl . . . out from under me," DiNozzo groaned between clenched teeth. "I . . . I seem to be pinned. I think the whole damn barn came down."

"Pinned? Ooookay . . . ." McGee took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice even. "Is there, like, a beam or something on your leg?"

DiNozzo's hesitation did not bode well.

"Tony?"

"McGee, you're not going to like this . . . . I think something's stuck _in_ my leg . . . like. . . may. . . maybe a pipe? Hurts like a motherf—"

"A pipe? In-in-in your leg?" McGee stammered. "In—as in—you're-you're-you're . . . , like. . . , impaled?" McGee swallowed his nausea.

Tony inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly, scaring McGee more than any words could.

"Tony?" A Tony not talking was scary.

"I think . . . I think I'll never. . . never eat. . . a shish kabob a . . . again."

_Oh, God . . . ."_I'm going to try to get out from under you now." McGee began to scoot out from under his partner, but the scream of raw agony that Tony tried unsuccessfully to suppress made him freeze.

"Stop!" Tony begged as he gasped for air. "Please! Campfire . . . ," he wheezed out between ragged breaths.

"I'm sorry," McGee responded as calmly as possible. "I'm sorry—look, just, just tell me what to do!"

"Give me a minute." Tony tried to even out his breathing and still the shaking in his voice.

McGee felt the tremors coursing through his partner's entire body, and his own anxiety grew exponentially. He had seen Tony beaten, tortured, starved, drugged, and ill, but never had he heard him so close to desperation. He tried to slow his own breathing.

Tony began again, "I may not be much help here in a few minutes. I'm, uh, I'm kind of buzzing in, in, a not-fun way."

_This so cannot be happening._ "DiNozzos don't pass out, remember?"

"Here's the thing . . . ." Tony swallowed and took a shaky breath. "Whatever's in my leg is attached to something. Something above me, I think."

_Oh, God . . . ._

Tony continued, "When you get out from under me,"—Tony took a deep breath—"one of two things is going to happen."

McGee definitely didn't like the direction of this conversation.

"Whatever's jammed in my leg will either come out, leaving a big hole, or it won't come out, which means it will be holding me up in the air with most of my weight pulling down. I can't be sure, but I have a feeling I won't be much help either way . . . . I need you, Tim."

"Oh, God! Don't make me do this, Tony. Gibbs and Ducky will be here before too long. We'll just stay like this. You know. . . let's give this a few more minutes."

"Just . . . just how the hell do you figure that?"

"Gibbs has that sixth sense, you know?"

"Ducky's back in DC . . . . McGee, listen. I'm not feeling so good, so . . . unless you're set on wearing my puke on your head . . . you need you to do this. Soon." Another spasm of pain shot through his body, eliciting a choked groan. "Before I forget . . . , there's a tunnel. Back in the corner."

"A tunnel? That's how she got out? Okay, Tony. Got it. Tunnel in the corner. You would seriously puke on my head?"

"Seriously . . . , McGee, as soon as you're out from under me, you need to get me free of that pipe or spike or whatever the hell it is, and plug the hole. Pressure. Stop the bleeding."

"I'm sorry, DiNozzo—Tony—you know I'm not that great with blood and . . . ."

Tony interrupted him. "I need you to be good with it today, Tim. And if pulling me down from that spike starts to bring the whole rest of the barn down," Tony's body jolted with a sharp spasm. "Then—get out."

McGee pushed his nausea down.

"Take off your tie and have it ready, Tim, but try not to move too much yet. I'm going to try to get mine off too."

McGee slipped his hands up to his tie and began to undo the knot, a difficult task in their limited space. He pulled the loose tie free from around his neck.

He felt Tony try to do the same, but McGee felt a shudder run through DiNozzo's body, and heard a strangled cry in his ear.

"Screw it," Tony hissed. "Cut it off me if you need it. You have a knife, right?"

"Rule 9," McGee confirmed.

"You know what to do?"

McGee nodded. "Yeah, I'm going to get out from under you and-and-and control the bleeding."

"And if I'm hung up, you're going to pull me down off it, no matter what. You won't stop, no matter what I do, . . . even . . . even if I cry like a little girl."

McGee felt a cold sweat flash across his body as his stomach plummeted. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth. "Right." He knew things could get much worse before they got any better.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, bracing himself. "Let's just get it over with."

"I think I'm going to puke, Tony . . . ."

"Puke later. Get this thing out of me. Please, McGee."

The note of despair gave McGee more resolve. "Let me get my flashlight out. I need to be able to see better. There. On three?" he asked sickly.

"'Kay," DiNozzo answered, his voice tense with morbid anticipation.

"One . . . two . . . three!" McGee began to scramble his way out from under Tony. He tried to block out the gut-wrenching screams of excruciating pain from his partner that were mere inches from his ear.


	5. Blood

**Author's Note: Thank you again for the reviews, alerts, favorites, and messages! Please enjoy and offer feedback! I realize this chapter is a bit short, but the next chapter is much longer! **

.

.

Chapter 5: Blood

McGee had been unprepared for the arterial blood spray when what turned out to be a piece of rebar came free from the back of Tony's lower leg. The area was already severely swollen and deformed. Thankful to at least have his necktie handy, he propped his flashlight against some boards and applied pressure to slow down the flow of blood as Tony's breaths came in what amounted to sobs of agony. McGee felt a scraping and shifting under his hands as he applied pressure, which instantly made his own insides twist further. He turned his head and leaned back as his stomach violently emptied, but McGee never let his hands ease up on the pressure to the deep wound. He wiped his mouth and chin on his shoulder and continued his attempts to stop Tony's life from leaking out between his fingers.

After several minutes, Tony's breathing quieted, but the blood soaked through the tie and began to flow through McGee's fingers. McGee's eyes had adjusted to the light, and he saw that Tony's back was covered with scrapes and lacerations, visible through multiple rips in his pale blue shirt. McGee couldn't be sure in the poor lighting, but some of them appeared to be bleeding steadily. He didn't dare move his hands from the larger wound. He felt his heartbeat quicken.

"Tony? This isn't really working. I, uh, I think you've got some some-uh, broken bones in there—"

"Yeah," Tony whispered through his tightly clenched teeth, his entire body trembling from pain. "I felt them scraping. Tim—"

"Tony, the bleeding—it just won't stop. Your back's bleeding too. And your head or nose or something is still—"

"Tourniquet, McGee."

_Tourniquet?_ The word hit McGee like a physical blow to his gut.

"No way, Tony. I stayed conscious long enough in first aid class that I know you doNOT put tourniquets on anymore. You do something with the something in the, uh, the uh, groin area . . . to, you know, slow the flow of blood and all that." Inwardly, he cringed at the thought of placing his hand part in that region of his friend's anatomy, but of course he would do it to save Tony's life.

"Tourniquet, McGee. Above my knee—not on the break. Then . . . go. Get help."

"Tony . . . no . . . they don't do that anymore," McGee pleaded.

Tony smiled wanly. "Tim, did they teach you how to do transfusions and surgery at MIT . . . or Cub Scouts?"

"Weebelos . . . ." McGee's voice caught in his throat.

"Last resort, McGee. I'm bleeding out of more holes than you can plug. Help's not on the way, and I may pass out. Phys. Ed. major, 'member?" Tony mustered as much strength as he could to continue. "I'm going into shock, and it's last resort time, Tim, or I'm going to bleed to death. You . . . you need to get help.

"But a tourniquet could mean . . . ." Tim fought the nausea that again threatened its way up into his throat at the thought of Tony losing his leg.

"It means I might not die today," Tony spoke with firm conviction.

Tim bit his lip, trying to think of a way around the inevitable decision that he knew could cost Tony his leg. "Where should I put the tourniquet—a couple inches above your knee?"

"Yeah. You're going to need my tie, too. Move fast . . . just cut it. And find a stick or something to tighten it."

McGee surveyed the debris around him, moving as little as possible. "I see something. I'll grab it when . . . when . . . you know . . . when it's time."

"Hey, Tim?" Tony added tentatively, his breaths coming more rapidly.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"If things . . . go south, you know about CPR, right?"

McGee squirmed inwardly, balking at the thought of needing to perform CPR on his partner. He stammered nervously, "Well, I . . . yes . . . well, I've never actually done it, but I know the basic—"

"You left yourself . . . wide open for a joke there, but I'm just too tired," Tony jested weakly. "CPR doesn't work if the person bled to death, okay? If things shut down, just . . . just let me be, okay? I don't want to be brain dead on machines." The exchange had taken its toll, and Tony's voice lost strength again, his final reserves dwindling. "Promise me?"

McGee licked his lips nervously and nodded tentatively. "Y-yeah."

Tony snorted quietly. "Again, with confidence."

McGee straightened his back and nodded. "I won't let you down."

"Tim?"

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Just know . . . that if you can't do it, it can't be done."

"This can't be harder than hacking into the CIA's case files without getting caught, right? Or . . . or getting Ziva out of Somalia, right?" He swallowed back his queasiness as he prepared to apply the tourniquet. He needed another set of hands. Tony's artery would resume the heavy bleeding while McGee positioned the tie.

"Ready?"

"Mark your way, McGee."

"What?"

"When you go for help. Mark your way with your knife . . . so you can get back with help. Get my keys. Front right pocket."

"Good idea, Tony. Real good." He held the pressure as steady as he could with one hand and reached into Tony's front pants pocket for the keys.

"Hey . . . no funny stuff," Tony said, trying to lighten the gravity of the situation.

"Ha, ha." McGee got the keys.

"Tim . . . you're a good agent."

"Thanks, Tony, but we're not going to do this right now. Tell me once you're all patched up and it will mean more."

"Well, you are."

"Okay. So . . . are you ready?"

Tony grunted, "No . . . but yes . . . ." He steeled himself and took a deep breath.

McGee lifted his hands from the injured leg. Tony immediately cried out and gulped for air as the bones in his lower leg shifted again. His torn up back arched as his body tried instinctively to escape the newest assault. Seconds later, blood began to spurt from Tony's calf, as it had when he had first been freed from the rebar. Despite his shaking hands, McGee deftly tied the long cloth above Tony's knee, away from both the wound and broken bones.

McGee ignored Tony's erratic gasping and tensing as well as he could and tied the stick to the secured necktie. He began to turn the stick, cinching the strap tighter around his partner's leg, just above the knee. He discovered he was holding his breath. "How tight?" he asked between his own tightly clenched teeth.

Tony couldn't answer: his whole world centered on surviving the mind-numbing pain as the strap slowly constricted his aching thigh muscles and pinched the large femoral artery against the intact upper leg bone. His fists balled up so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his well-kept fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

McGee gave the stick another twist. Tony growled an almost inhuman sound and McGee knew his partner had to be on the verge of passing out. Finally the bleeding slowed dramatically. McGee gave it another half turn, and the bleeding essentially stopped. _Now to secure it._ McGee held the stick in place with his left hand and used his knife with his right to remove Tony's necktie as fast as he could. He wrapped the tie around the ends of the stick to keep it in place at the back of Tony's thigh.

McGee looked at his watch. 4:13 pm. 16:13 military time. The clock was ticking.

Tony still lay prone, head turned to the side, eyes closed, breathing rapidly and intermittently shivering. His hands slowly unclenched, his fingers gradually going slack.

Tim removed his own filthy suit jacket and covered Tony's back as well as he could, wishing he could get Tony up off the wet floor. He moved several feet away from Tony and vomited one more time. The light filtering through the wreckage had all but disappeared as night fell. He would need his flashlight, and that would leave Tony in nearly complete darkness.

"I'll be back, Tony," he said as he began to carefully climb his way to the surface to call for help, but he knew Tony was beyond hearing him. Tony DiNozzo had finally, mercifully, passed out.


	6. Help

Many thanks for all the alerts, favorites, messages, and REVIEWS! Please enjoy this long chapter posted on my birthday, and give me feedback! Thanks!

.

.

.

Chapter 6: Help

McGee nearly dropped to the mud with exhaustion and relief when he finally stood on solid ground. It wasn't raining yet, but the heavy mist in the air made the ground slick as it mixed with the loose dirt. He pulled his cell phone open and began to watch for a signal, knowing the chances were slim. He cursed and headed for the house, hopeful to find a landline. A quick search in the mostly likely areas—living room, bedroom, kitchen—were unrewarding, so McGee hurried out the front door and trotted to Tony's car, grabbing the car keys from his pants pocket as he ran. He started the engine, threw the car into reverse, and pushed the accelerator to the floor, constantly watching his phone for a signal.

About two miles up the muddy road, one bar flickered on his phone. "Come on . . . come on . . . ," he chanted, waiting for a solid signal. When the bar finally stopped blinking McGee slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the car. The phone jumped to two full bars, and began to silently signal all his missed calls, voice mails, and unread texts, preventing him from dialing out. "Not now!" he yelled, shaking the phone in frustration. Finally he punched in his number one contact: Gibbs. Tony would need an airlift, and Gibbs could make it happen faster than any 9-1-1 dispatcher on the planet.

"It's about damn time you checked in!" Gibbs barked into the phone, his voiced hardened with both irritation and anxiety.

"Boss, Tony's hurt. He needs an airlift. I had to put a tourniquet on his leg, Gibbs. A tourniquet! At 16:13. God, that's half an hour already! I have to get back to him."

"Where are you?" Gibbs mashed the gas pedal to the floor.

"We're still at the grandparents' farm outside Berryville. We'll be under what used to be a barn—before the bomb. I marked the way with Xs. I put a rock on a Nutter Butter wrapper where I came out, but I'll put Tony's jacket there when I go back in." McGee's voice teetered on the edge of breaking. "I-I-I have to get back to him—there's no cell signal. I had to leave him . . . alone, in the dark. I have to get back. We found Turner, too. He's dead, Boss. And now he's blown to bits."

"We're on our way. We're on 7, ten minutes west of Leesburg. Go take care of him, Tim. Tell him we're coming for him. You tell him that." Gibbs snapped his phone shut and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Tony?" Ziva asked anxiously. "He is hurt?"

"It's bad. Call Vance and tell him we need an emergency airlift from Fairfax to the Berryville address. Be sure he lets them know there's a tourniquet on DiNozzo's leg."

Ziva's phone was already open, and she was dialing Vance even as Gibbs continued to talk.

"And tell him to bring in ATF—there was a bomb. He's going to want to contact EOD and SecNav. Then call Ducky and have him drive the van to Berryville with Palmer. McGee said they found Turner's body. I'll call in the locals. If you lose the signal, hang out the window because I'm not stopping."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

McGee scrambled back to Tony as fast as possible, catching his shoe on a jagged piece of rebar, which pitched him forward onto shards of wood and broken glass. He cursed under his breath and scraped his hands against his pants to free as much of the glass and splinters as possible. The rest could wait. "Help's on the way, Tony! Gibbs is coming for you. Hang in there." When he reached Tony's side, he put down the first aid kit and turned on the powerful roadside emergency light he had brought from the car. He placed the light on a box for better visibility. Tony looked even worse in the harsh ultra-white light.

His friend lay completely silent and still, exactly as McGee had left him. All color had drained from his usually tan complexion. Even his lips appeared almost translucent.

"Tony!" McGee said a little louder, hoping to rouse his friend and offer some hope. McGee stopped the urge to give Tony's shoulder a shake, knowing it would cause him pain. He raised his voice with false bravado. "DiNozzo—Gibbs is coming for you. He's calling for an airlift. It's no Gulfstream, but you'll get to travel in style." The words felt hollow as Tony remained completely unresponsive. Then McGee did give Tony's shoulder a shake, gently at first, then a bit rougher. Still not a wince, not a groan. Not a breath. McGee's stomach dropped and a lump formed in his tightened throat.

Nothing.

McGee stared at the still and bloodied form. Blood continued to sluggishly ooze from the cut on Tony's forehead. McGee's hands began to tremble in the stifling silence.

Silence.

No more breathing.

He reached cautiously to Tony's wrist and felt for a pulse. _Tony . . . don't do this . . . don't do this . . . ._

Nothing.

The hand felt cold. Limp. Lifeless.

"No . . . God, please no. . . ." McGee whispered. He tried the wrist again, but the only pulse he felt came from the pounding of his own heartbeat. He reached across to Tony's other wrist, and tears began to stream from McGee's eyes, and his breathing hitched.

No pulse.

Tony's words echoed in McGee's mind. _CPR doesn't work on people who bleed to death_. . . . _If it comes to that . . . let me be. . . ._

McGee clenched his own bloodied hands into fists and yelled until his voice and throat were raw. The dried arcs of arterial blood splattered against the fallen walls and boxes of the basement stood out like vulgar grimaces, mocking him. Death had taken its claim.

McGee finally bowed his head and let the tears of grief and loss flow down his face in silence.

Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was dead.

.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

.

The world became surreal. McGee sat below tons of rubble with his deceased partner, waiting for help to arrive too late. The basement had become a tomb. It had been a tomb to Sergeant Turner in the freezer for some time. But this was Tony.

First Pacchi, then Kate, Paula, Director Shepard. Mike Franks.

Now Tony.

How could he tell Gibbs that Tony was dead? That Tony died saving Tim's life? Hadn't Gibbs lost enough already? The team would never be the same. Couldn't be. Gibbs was the leader, but Tony had proven time and again to be the heart.

The thought of ever writing a novel again formed a bitter taste in McGee's mouth. Main characters didn't die in his books. But this was real life. No re-writes.

McGee looked at his own bloody hands and the blood-soaked knees of his torn pants. His right wrist, swollen since his fall, throbbed in time to his own rapid pulse. His eyes drifted back to Tony's body, broken and bloodied and silent, his hair white with dust. His face chalky, ashen.

Then Tony's lips moved, followed by a tiny sound—little more than the movement of air. McGee's heart shot into his throat.

"Tony! I'm such an idiot!" he yelled, lunging forward to place his fingers at Tony's neck. The pulse was there. Not strong enough to be felt at the wrist, but definitely there, weak and fast, Tony's breathing shallow and nearly imperceptible. "Thank you, God," McGee whispered, and he began to tear open nearby boxes, looking for anything to help keep Tony alive while they waited for help to arrive.

Finally, McGee found a box of old wool army blankets. He cleared debris from the area next to Tony and shook dead moths and mouse droppings off the first blanket before laying it on the floor. The wool soaked up the water, but he knew that even wet wool would insulate Tony from the cold. Next he placed dry blankets over the bottom layer, working as fast as possible while his own injuries slowed his efforts. He hated to move his partner, but at least he probably wouldn't feel it. Not much, anyway. Maybe. Hopefully.

McGee carefully looked under the suit jacket to check Tony's back, and he cursed at the blood still seeping from the deeper lacerations. He folded gauze pads from the first aid kit and placed them over the worst cuts. He taped them down as well as he could, but the tape resisted sticking to Tony's damp skin. It occurred to McGee that Tony might be better off on his back. His body weight should help stop the bleeding, and he might be able to draw more air in, but McGee knew he couldn't turn Tony without twisting him, and that didn't seem like a good idea. "Dammit!" McGee yelled loudly. He didn't know what to do.

McGee's gently shifted Tony's upper body onto his back on the dry blanket, eliciting a low moan that tore at McGee's heart. "I'm sorry, Tony," he said smoothly, his confidence born anew with the precious signs of life, however fragile. "You're not dying on my watch."

McGee took a deep breath and looked at Tony's injured leg. Supporting the broken bones as well as he could, given his damaged wrist, he gritted his teeth and very slowly and carefully rolled Tony the rest of the way onto his back. McGee blanched at the amount of dried and smeared blood on the senior agent's face from a laceration high on his forehead. As if he hadn't been injured enough. He placed a rolled up wool blanket under Tony's good leg but didn't know what to do with the injured one, so he left it.

He placed his suit jacket back over Tony and covered the jacket with a wool blanket, which he tucked up around Tony's shoulders and sides of his head for added warmth.

Tony's lips moved again. "Gibbs," he whispered, his eyes still closed.

"Gibbs is on the way, Tony," McGee assured him. "He's coming for you."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs plowed his car past Tony's and on through the yard to what remained of the barn. It looked like something he would have seen in Iraq, but this time his boys were somewhere under the mess.

Ziva cursed under her breath in Hebrew, then followed it with quick prayer.

Gibbs opened up his trunk and reached for his backpack. He rummaged through it to make sure his big LED lantern, a headlamp, thick leather gloves, rope, hatchet, and two bottles of water were in it. He strapped on his headlamp and tested the light. He pulled out three flares and handed two of them to Ziva.

Gibbs faced Ziva squarely, and held her by the shoulders, reading her expression. "Listen, Ziva, I know you want to go in there, but I need you out here. Put one flare back at the turn-off for the driveway. Set another one in the front, so the helo can see the yard. Go in the house and turn on any outdoor lights. LEOs, Fire, and Aid will be coming soon, and you know the media won't be far behind." He turned and pointed to the pile of wood and metal that had been the barn. "At least I don't see smoke. I need to get in there before the rescue units arrive, or they'll try to keep me from going in. Let them know McGee marked the way. I'll put this flare outside the entrance point, and I'll try to clear space for a rescue team as I go."

She nodded quickly, biting her lower lip. "Just get him out, Gibbs."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs had to keep his pace slow, even when his mind screamed for him to power through the debris at full speed. He slowed periodically to re-mark the way when he obscured McGee's scratches by making room for the rescue team. Despite the relatively short distance he needed to travel, the pace was painstakingly slow. He heard boards creaking, water dripping, the smell of old hay, and the distinctive smell of ammonia and oil. The taste left in his mouth wasn't as offensive as he remembered, but it still brought back dark memories of Iraq. He had lost friends there, and he was not going to lose Tony. Not today.

"That you, Boss?" McGee's oddly muffled voice finally called out.

"Right here, McGee. Coming in. I can see your light. How's he doing?"

"Still breathing," McGee called back. "Paramedics with you?"

"Soon, McGee. Real soon."

Several minutes later, Gibbs entered the small space where McGee watched over Tony. McGee looked like a figure from a slasher movie. A mix of Tony's dried blood and his own decorated his face, and both his shirt and pants were dark with blood stains.

"He said your name once, Boss."

Gibbs' gut tightened when he saw the arterial spray on the boxes and walls. But a hot shock wave passed through his whole body when he saw Tony. He'd seen it before—overseas—and he had yet to see someone survive it.

"Ah, hell, Tony," he muttered as he knelt beside his right-hand agent. "Medevac is on the way, along with a rescue team. We'll get you out of here soon."

Tony's bloodshot eyes cracked open, finding Gibbs before shutting again, a ghost of a smile on his face. His whisper was inaudible, except to Gibbs. "Sorry, Boss. Got away."

Gibbs shook his head and patted Tony's shoulder gently, felt the shivers run through his body. "We got it handled, DiNozzo," he assured. He opened a bottle of water and gave one to Tim. "Drink." He took the cap off the other and touched the edge to Tony's lips. "Just a sip, then you relax. I'm going to make a little more room in here."

Tony didn't respond, but he did swallow the few drops of water Gibbs dribbled into his mouth.

McGee just continued to stare, unblinking, at Tony. McGee's head jerked up suddenly when he heard scraping noises above, followed by voices. "Rescue team, Boss?" he asked anxiously.

Gibbs turned his head and shouted urgently with his strong gunnery sergeant's voice. "Down here!"

The lead paramedic raced to Tony, followed by two EMTs carrying a Stokes basket and other equipment and bags. "What's his name?"

"Tony DiNozzo," Gibbs supplied.

"Tony, can you open your eyes here?"

Tony's eyes fluttered open, his gaze searching until he saw Gibbs.

"That's good. My name's John. This is Roy—"

"No way. . . ," Tony whispered, his eyes shutting again. "No way."

"I know, Johnny and Roy. Hard to believe, right? We're going to check you out and get you on your way to the hospital as fast as possible." The man moved with practiced hands, checking Tony over while his partner started getting Tony's vitals. A few quick glances between the two spoke volumes to the severity of Tony's condition. "When did this tourniquet go on?"

McGee looked at his watch, but Gibbs answered first. "Two hours and three minutes ago."

"I see he took a blow to the head," the EMT noted. He pointed to the vomit. "That his?"

"Uh, no, that was me," McGee admitted. "Twice. But we were both knocked out in the blast. I came to before he did, and that cut on his forehead bled for quite a while. It finally quit about twenty minutes ago. His back is all cut up, too. I didn't have any way to stop that bleeding until I got back with the first aid kit. I did my best with gauze and tape, but, I was kind of . . . clumsy, and the tape didn't want to stick."

"You did all you could do. Tried to keep him warm, too, that's all good. Either of you know if he's on any meds? Any medical conditions?"

Gibbs spoke up. "No regular meds, but he's a pneumonic plague survivor from 2005."

Both rescuers looked at Gibbs, sure they had heard him incorrectly. "Did you say 'pneumonic plague'?"

"Genetically modified Y. pestis. That's classified information, by the way, so 'need to know' only."

"Jeez. How many lives does this guy have?"

"Don't know, but he's used up five already. He had a concussion a few months ago, too. Head versus pavement."

"Okay, we'll be sure that all gets passed on. Any blast that could do this wouldn't do his lungs any favors, either."

The EMT who had been jotting down information as it was reported eyed McGee. "It wouldn't have done your lungs any good, either. You feel okay?"

"Fine."

"We'll want to check you out when we get topside, if you're good to walk out of here."

McGee and Gibbs both nodded.

The lead paramedic finished his primary assessment and quietly exchanged information with the EMT. They started an IV, placed an oxygen mask on his mouth and nose, and quickly splinted his lower leg.

The paramedic addressed Gibbs as the two EMTs packaged Tony for extrication. "He's lost a lot of blood, obviously, and he's gone into shock. That IV should help bring that blood pressure up. We need to get him out of here fast."

The paramedics swiftly placed Tony in the Stokes basket for his protection on the way out of the demolished barn. Gibbs carried the IV bag, wincing inwardly with every bump and scrape of the basket. Speed was paramount, and this crew knew their business. They placed a light covering over Tony's face, and blankets over his body to protect him from falling debris as well as they could. McGee moved slowly and methodically, his eyes glued to Gibbs' back.

"You hanging in there, McGee?" Gibbs asked as he wove his way through the tight space behind the basket.

"Hanging in there, Boss."

Gibbs felt nearly equal measures of pride, fear, and burning anger. Anger with himself as much as anyone else. Danielle Turner had gotten the upper hand. At least his fury kept him sharp, gave him drive.

The temperature had been dropping since sundown, and the rain had picked up. Even though they were under partial cover as they struggled their way upward, water worked its way through the shattered building, along the paths of least resistance, adding slickness to the dangerous piles of jagged wood, broken concrete, and twisted rebar. It was agonizingly slow climbing out of the rubble and nearly as slow as they carefully picked their way back down to ground level. Many hands assisted with the last of the descent, and once the rescue party cleared the blast zone, the pace improved dramatically.

The quiet little farm in Berryville had transformed, resembling a carnival as much as a crime scene. Three fire trucks, four police cars, two ambulances, and a variety of other vehicles had assembled on the grounds, their multi-colored blinking lights adding to the chaotic atmosphere.

Ziva ran to the rescue basket, fear gripping her heart when she saw that the body and face were covered. She halted in shock, but soon recognized the urgency in rescuer's pace. An urgency not present to transport a corpse. She strode alongside the rescue basket and pulled the light protective flap off Tony's face. His eyes opened slowly and locked on hers. She thought she saw recognition in his hazel eyes. She thought he might have nodded at her. She hoped he had.

"You fight, Tony! Fight!" Ziva ordered.

The rescuers placed the basket on a rolling gurney and rushed to the waiting helicopter, where the Medevac team took over. Tony's clothes were cut off him, monitors attached, and IVs checked as the pilot prepared to take off.

A growing crowd of reporters shoved their microphones and lights in Ziva's face, the sudden brightness blinding her.

"So can you tell us about the man pulled from the devastation?" "Can you give us a name?" "Is it true he's a police officer?" "Is it the missing Marine we've heard rumors about?" " Is it a federal case?" "It appears to be the result of some sort of bombing. Is this an act of terrorism?" "Will Homeland Security be brought in to help NCIS with this case?" "Someone said he is a suspect. What can you tell us?"

Ziva pushed silently past them to Gibbs' side and two local policemen strove to keep the reporters from following her.

Gibbs yelled loudly over the sound of the spinning rotors, "Tony! We'll see you at Bethesda!" He then hailed a local cop. "This is no longer a rescue site. It's my crime scene. I need the area cordoned off, and these reporters off the property. Now!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Ziva—come with me." Gibbs led her over to one of the ambulances, where the paramedic had draped a blanket over McGee's shoulders while they took his vitals.

"Gibbs," Ziva said as softly as she could, given the noise of the helicopter taking off, "they are not taking him to Bethesda. They are taking him to Fairfax."

"Yeah, but I want the media storm to go to Bethesda," Gibbs answered knowingly.

Tim had assumed Tony would go to Bethesda, where he had been treated in the past. "Why Fairfax? Because it's closer?"

The paramedic answered. "It's closer, but Fairfax is also a Level 1 Trauma Center, with the vascular and orthopedic specialists that your buddy needs. Bethesda isn't." He finished splinting McGee's wrist and bandaged up his hands. "You'll need to get those cleaned at the hospital, along with x-rays for that wrist."

"Even with the tourniquet, Tony's leg still kept bleeding. It slowed down a lot, but blood still kept coming. I couldn't stop it completely."

"That medullary oozing is normal, even with a tourniquet that's on right. It comes from the inside of the bones that broke," the paramedic assured him.

"Are you guys really named John and Roy, like from that old TV show?"

The dark-haired EMT laughed. "Emergency. Yeah, but I'm Roy, and he's Johnny. Backwards."

"Tony is going to think that's hilarious. First he gets a doctor named Brad Pitt and now he's rescued by Johnny and Roy."

"He okay to ride with me to Fairfax?" Gibbs asked.

"If he wants to," John answered. "But he really does need to be checked out thoroughly there. And he'll need to sign some papers saying it's his choice."

Roy walked over with papers on a clip board and pen.

"No problem, thanks. For everything," McGee answered, clumsily signing his name with his bandaged left hand.

"You two, with me," Gibbs said, walking toward his car and away from the crowds.

"McGee, I need to know what the hell happened here. You find Danielle? You said you found Turner's body?"

"Kind of. I saw blood on the carpet about the time that she, uh, Danielle, bolted for the barn here, so Tony and I chased her, but she was really fast. Faster than Tony, if you can believe it. We searched the barn, and didn't think she could have left it and the hay was all cleared off the hatch to the lower level—it's some sort of old fallout shelter, so we thought she went down there. Tony had me watching the hatch from the bottom of the stairs while he searched the basement. He found Sergeant Turner in the freezer, dead. He didn't find Danielle, so he went to take a closer, slower look."

Gibbs nodded. "Then?"

"Then I heard a boom and something that sounded like a blast of sand or little rocks or something. It sounded pretty far away, but Tony yelled something and I heard coughing. I asked him if he was okay, and he yelled for me to stay back. There was another boom, closer, and he yelled 'Get out,' and I heard him yell 'bomb,' then he shoved me up the stairs, and tackled me as more bombs started exploding. Good thing the blast threw us off the side of those stairs, because you saw what was left."

Gibbs filled Ziva in. "Completely filled with debris. Impassable." He turned back to McGee. "Ended up shielding you two from the worst of it."

"When we came to, Tony was still on top of me, but his leg . . . ." McGee shut his eyes as a wave of renewed nausea washed over him.

"Take your time," Gibbs soothed uncharacteristically. "Tony's in good hands."

"His leg, it, uh, was hung up on a piece of rebar, from above him. It went in through the back of his calf and broke the bones. The, uh, Boss, the bleeding wouldn't stop, and his back, and head . . . it was all bleeding, and we needed help. He told me to do the tourniquet, but, but I knew what that could mean." McGee attempted to swallow past the huge lump blocking his throat that was stopping any more words that might have tried to emerge. "Gibbs, he could lose his leg! He might never be a field agent again!"

Gibbs gazed intently at McGee, who now stared at an indistinct spot on the ground. "Look at me, McGee."

McGee did as his boss ordered, expecting to see the fierceness to which he had become accustomed. McGee's heart sank when he saw pain, loss, and compassion in Gibbs' intense eyes.

"You did good here, Tim."

A look of doubt crossed McGee's features, but Gibbs gently squeezed his shoulder for reassurance. "Never found Danielle?" he ventured. "Or any sign of an accomplice?"

McGee shook his head.

"And you're still sure she went down that hatch?"

"There was no other exit to the barn, not above ground, anyway," McGee confirmed. "But later, Tony said, 'tunnel.' He was too out of it to explain. Boss, there's got to be a tunnel back there—it would be in the northwest corner."

Gibbs nodded. "There's a bomb team on the way, and Vance will send in another team to start processing this when ATF and EOD give the nod. We're going to need whatever's left of the bombs and their immediate surround, and we need that freezer and whatever is left of the body.

"Ziva, you have the lead, but if you need something, you call me or you call Vance. I don't know whose jurisdiction some of this is going to fall in, but I'm sure there'll be a pissing match. You don't give up the lead unless the order comes directly from Vance. We're going to need a full team to go through that house. Have the local LEOs patch any calls through their dispatch if you can't get a cell signal. I'll be back in the morning, and I'll send an update on Tony as soon as we have one."

As Ziva nodded and took a deep breath, Gibbs added, "And Tony's going to be okay."

Gibbs surveyed the restless crowd of people and vehicles. "Better get out there. You're in charge of this clusterf—"

Ziva lipread the end of the final word, the end of which was covered up by the backing horn of one of the fire engines. She reassembled her game face and took charge, her body language alone daring anyone to challenge her. Her emotions were running so high she almost wished someone would.

To the local law enforcement officers, Gibbs yelled, "This woman's name is Ziva David, and she is with NCIS and in charge of this crime scene. You mess with her and I won't be held responsible. You got that?" He spread his arms in a sweeping gesture to the reporters and camera crews on the grounds. "And nobody talks to the media!"

"Get in, McGee," Gibbs pointed to his car.

"What about Tony's car?" McGee asked as he followed Gibbs.

"It'll keep. Mine's faster."


	7. Corpus Delecti

Author's note: Again, thank you for the wonderful feedback, alerts, and favorites! Please keep it coming!

.

.

Chapter 7: Corpus Delecti

Gibbs phoned Fairfax as soon as he had cell phone service to let them know McGee was on the way. There were extenuating circumstances to his injuries that would require special care because of the potential for delayed effects from the explosion. Gibbs took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at Tim, who had succumbed to exhaustion.

When the car came to a full stop in the Fairfax parking lot, McGee woke up startled and at the edge of panic. "Oh shit! Tony!" he blurted before he realized where he was.

Gibbs spoke softly to his youngest agent. "We're at the hospital, Tim. You need a minute?"

McGee sat up straighter and looked around the parking lot, getting his bearings. He looked down at his bandaged hands, his splinted wrist. "It wasn't all a dream, then."

"Nope." Gibbs screwed the lid off a fresh bottle of water and handed it to McGee.

"Let's go check on Tony," McGee said as he tried to open his car door.

"Hang on, I'll get the door, McGee." Gibbs walked around to the passenger door. "Let's get you checked in first. You'll probably have some waiting to do, but I'll see if we can at least find you a place to lie down."

McGee eased himself out of the car and swayed. "Man, my hands are shaking again."

Gibbs offered a steadying grip on McGee's upper arm and shut the door. "Adrenaline's gone, McGee. People have collapsed under a hell of a lot less trauma than you went through. You okay to walk now?"

"Yeah, Boss."

"You ever been knocked out before, McGee?"

"Not really, no. I guess I held my breath long enough to pass out when I was a kid."

"Well, consider it a rite of passage."

"Does that mean Tony won't ever call me Probie again?"

Gibbs chuckled. "Don't count on it."

They stood at the threshold of the emergency room. The rain had stopped, the clouds had moved on, and now stars shone in the sky, making the night seem deceptively calm. But reality loomed on the other side of the door, complete with overly bright lights and the smell of institutional disinfectants.

"You ready?" Gibbs asked.

McGee nodded and they entered the hospital.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs wished Ducky could have met them at the hospital to deal with the doctors and check on Tony's condition, but he knew that his medical examiner's obligation was to the deceased Marine in the freezer. Unraveling the details behind Turner's demise would in turn help bring Tony's attacker to justice. But, damn, did he hate hospitals . . . .

Part of Gibbs' mind knew that McGee should probably have gone to Fairfax by ambulance. But the poor kid had been through hell, sick with worry, second guessing himself, and Gibbs knew that driving him in his own vehicle had been the right thing to do. He was getting soft.

They approached the registration desk, and Tim's knees buckled. Gibb's quick hand steadied him, and that seemed to be enough triage to bump McGee to the top of the list. A nurse rushed a wheelchair to McGee and helped him into it, and then she whisked him off through a double door and to a trauma room bed.

Gibbs filled out the paperwork as well as he could and then asked about Tony. After verifying that Gibbs was, in fact, still listed as Tony's next of kin, the front desk clerk told him to have a seat and that someone would come speak to him.

Instead of sitting, Gibbs paced. The TV news in the waiting area caught his attention. The screen showed live coverage of the Bombing in Berryville, as they called it. The report was short on details—and long on drama—but one thing all media knew: NCIS had been involved (they showed a picture of Ziva speaking to a local investigator) and a man had been critically injured and taken to Bethesda.

Gibbs smirked when they cut to a live reporter at Bethesda, who stood outside the very quiet emergency room reporting that, due to HIPAA laws, they had been unable to obtain any details regarding the injured man.

"Leroy Gibbs? Is there a Leroy Gibbs here?" a nurse called out.

He turned from the TV. "I'm Gibbs."

"Come with me, please," she said with a smile. She led him to a much smaller waiting room with a couch, two upholstered chairs, and a muted television. The news had moved on to the weather report.

"You have questions about Anthony DiNozzo?"

"How is he?" Gibbs asked, unable to read her expression.

"They've clamped off the blood vessel and removed the tourniquet. He's undergoing an emergency transfusion right now, and when he's stable enough, he'll be headed to surgery."

"Do they know if they can save the leg?" Gibbs asked directly.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, sir. It's very complex, and the surgery will take several hours. There really won't be much more I can tell you until after surgery. Someone will contact you when he is out of surgery, but you won't be able to see him for many hours."

Gibbs nodded. "Thank you."

"We've called in very good specialists for him, Mr. Gibbs. He's in good hands."

Gibbs was allowed to go talk with McGee, who was already hooked up to a variety of machines to monitor his blood pressure and heart rate. His eyes widened when he saw Gibbs."

"How's Tony? How's his leg?"

"They're getting him ready for surgery. He lost so much blood they needed to do a transfusion first." Gibbs relayed the information he had received from the nurse and then told McGee he was going to go to the parking lot to make some calls.

"Yeah, I'm going to be here a while, Boss. They're going to x-ray my wrist and clean up my scrapes. Then they said they need to admit me because of the possibility of delayed effects from the explosion. Plus they think I might have a concussion."

"I think that's a safe bet. You do what they tell you, McGee," Gibbs advised, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Boss, if they're worried about _my_ lungs, what does that mean for Tony?" Fear showed on McGee's face again. A fear Gibbs shared.

"I don't know, Tim. I don't know."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

As Gibbs walked back to his car to make some calls, his phone rang. "Gibbs."

Ducky had routed a call through the Berryville/Leesburg emergency dispatch. "Have you any news on Anthony yet, Jethro? We shall all breathe easier when we know he is on the mend."

"Nurse said they took the tourniquet off and he's getting a transfusion. They're trying to get him stable for surgery. Sounds like it's going to be a long haul. We're not going to know much for a few hours."

"I have put in a call to Bethesda to see if Dr. Pitt could be brought in as a consultant, due to Tony's unusual medical history."

"That's good, Duck. Now give me an update."

"Mr. Palmer and I arrived some time ago. We were escorted to the freezer and what is left of Sergeant Turner's body. The remains are completely mutilated and have begun to thaw, but we were able to get some tissue, fluid, and fiber samples, which I shall drive back to Abigail tonight. I don't relish the thought of making that phone call . . . . Mr. Palmer will remain here with the body to maintain the chain of custody. We've been told it will be quite some time—perhaps days—until the freezer itself can be removed from the wreckage."

"Okay, Duck. At least we know who we're looking for now. Put Ziva on."

"She'll need to call you back, Jethro. She is getting a landline set up so that we'll be able to communicate more directly. Ziva is proving to be a very capable leader out here. You should be proud of her, Jethro."

"I'm proud of all of them, Ducky. And now I want to catch the bitch that did this."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs waited until McGee was admitted and put in a private room in the early pre-dawn hours, then he drove directly from Fairfax back to D.C. His first stop was down at Autopsy. Ducky looked like he had been up all night as well.

"What you got, Duck?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Jethro. Will you please give me an update on Anthony and Timothy?"

"Tony just made it out of surgery, Ducky. I just got the call."

"And his leg, Jethro?"

"Still attached. They just moved him to Recovery."

Ducky looked heavenward. "Thank God for that. And Timothy?"

"They're going to hang on to him, watch him. He broke his wrist and got banged up."

"Have you talked to Abigail yet, Jethro? She is in a state, as you can well imagine. But, as always, she rose to the occasion and threw herself into her work. She is as determined as we all are to find Anthony and Timothy's attacker and bring her to justice. I am sure that you're not surprised to know that there's not much to go on here, Jethro, as far as a medical examination. I am dealing with photographs, measurements, speculations, fibers, and lumps of tissue. As you can see, there just was not much left intact. There are, however, a few _curiosities_ that I have sent up to Miss Sciuto for further review."

"Curiosities, Duck?"

"Hmm, yes. For instance, there is possible evidence that the body was in that freezer for longer than Sergeant Turner was missing! Human tissue changes when it is submitted to subfreezing temperatures. The longer a body is frozen, the more pronounced the changes. Abigail should be able to tell much more definitively than I."

"Anything else?"

"Well, as far as a cause of death goes, it is possible that it was from blood loss, perhaps from stabbing or gunshots, given the amount of blood that was soaked into the carpet in the house. Abigail quickly confirmed that the blood inside Turner's car, the blood in the house, and the blood from the tissue samples inside the freezer are all one and the same, but she does not yet have conclusive DNA confirmation. It just takes longer, you see. The evidence is just _so _confounded from the explosion, Jethro! When we know more about the bombs, we shall know more about the state of the body before the explosion."

"Such as, Duck?"

"Such as, there were, for lack of a more precise anatomical term, 'chunks' of tissue that looked as if they might have had traces of powder burns. But whether that's from the bomb or from a gun, I have no idea! I've sent them to Abigail, along with a hair sample and fibers that are presumably from the sergeant's uniform."

"Ducky, is there any chance that this isn't Sergeant Turner? Could this be the sister?"

"But Anthony saw the body before the bomb, Jethro. He would not have mistaken a blonde female for a dark-haired male. And Timothy saw the uniform, but not the face."

"They were both male at one time, Ducky. Answer the question based on the evidence."

Ducky's lips were set in a thin line, matched by his equally tense face. "Based on the evidence, I do not know. Abigail will be able to answer that question. I am sorry I can't be of more help. I don't even have a body here to talk to! I'm afraid I'm feeling rather useless. For this poor soul—and for Anthony."

"Why don't you go on home, Ducky. You look beat."

"As do you, Jethro. But I shan't sleep."

"Why don't you on to Fairfax, then?"

The elder doctor reached for his coat and donned his hat, nodding. "Very well. Perhaps I can be of some use there. Or at least ensure that Timothy behaves himself. Do keep me posted, Jethro."

"You, too, Ducky."

.

*****NCIS*****

Gibbs headed up to Abby's lab.

"Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs!" She threw her arms around him and squeezed, showing no sign of letting go.

He patted her back gently. "They'll be okay, Abby."

"Any word on Tony? I haven't heard anything all morning!"

"It's only six a.m., and he's in recovery from the leg surgery. He got hurt pretty bad, Abby. Our place right now is to find the person who did this to him. He knows we care, McGee's there, and Ducky's on his way."

She released her hold and looked at Gibbs' face, reading the emotions that he tried so hard to keep in check.

"And McGee . . . is he really okay?"

Gibbs nodded. "Broken wrist, torn up hands, probably a concussion, banged up knees he never even mentioned. They want to keep him a full twenty-four hours to keep tabs on his lungs. That blast was pretty hard."

"And Tony's lungs . . . . He's gone through enough, Gibbs! It's not fair."

"What do you have for me?"

Abby shifted mental gears. "More than you could ever imagine! I was just getting ready to call you!"

"Nothing will surprise me on this case, Abby. Tell me what you've got."

Abby smiled and raised her eyebrows. "Well, for starters, our dead Marine is no Marine at all."

"You're sure?"

"Completely sure, because the blood from Ducky's blown up corpse, or BUC, as I like to call it, is full of synthetic female hormones. So is the blood from the house. But _not_ the sample from the Sergeant's car. Matching DNA, well, for the most part, but we won't get into that esoteric debate. The effects of those levels of hormones would be pretty hard to miss in normal day-to-day Marine life."

"How so?"

"They cause breasts, Gibbs. You know, knockers, boobs, ta-tas, whatever you want to call them."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I'm familiar with the terminology, Abby, go on."

"Yeah, so, secondary sex characteristics. Kind of a big deal when you're naked. People would have noticed, trust me. Especially Marines—no offense. But there's more. The corpse chunk's testosterone levels are very low. Female low, without the presence of testosterone blockers in the blood. But wait, there's more." She clicked on her keyboard again, bringing up another picture, this time it appeared to be a strand of hair.

"Ducky also sent up a hair sample from the area of our BUC where one might have otherwise expected to find a head. This hair is not David's hair, unless he bleached his hair and then dyed it back to its original shade. Bleaching does horrible things to hair. Horrible things that dying merely covers up but doesn't change back."

"So, that's not David Turner down there. Are you saying it's Danielle? But that can't be, either."

"Yes it is, and yes it can," she countered. "But I'm not done yet.

"There's also the matter of the tooth. There was one intact tooth, and it does not match any teeth in David Turner's dental records. I'll bet you Sister Rosita's favorite china teacup that this tooth matches sister Danielle's tooth. And there's one more little tidbit I have for you. You're going to like this one, Gibbs."

She pulled up another slide. "Take a look at these little beauties. These little guys are from tissue samples from our BUC. I've evaluated them both by microscope and by electronic image analyzer, and I've found extended extracellular spaces and shrunken cells resulting from the freeze-thaw cycle. These spaces far exceed the spaces expected on a body that has been frozen only three or four days. These definitely fall more in the two week range, which is before David went missing."

"Then how can it be Danielle, Abbs? It's before she went missing too," Gibbs reminded. "We have video footage from just a few days ago of her withdrawing cash from a bank in Leesburg."

"No, actually, we don't. And this is where it gets good. When I heard Tony got hurt last night and that he was in surgery and I wouldn't be able to see him, or, you know, sleep, I came here to wait for Ducky to bring me some evidence to process. So, while I waited, I got to studying the bank pictures Tony got from the bank manager who had the hots for you. McGee emailed me copies yesterday afternoon, before, you know, the bomb."

Abby brought up pictures of the bank on her computer. "When we analyze the ratios of known structures in the bank—such as standard countertop height, door height, width— to the image of Danielle, the person in those later images is bigger than the real Danielle. By several inches in height, and a couple shoe sizes. See?"

She shifted between two pictures. "These are the numbers for Danielle on her birthday, when she made her big deposit. But these three here—" she clicked more thumbprint photos and enlarged them. "These have to be David."

"David pretending to be his sister. Withdrawing her money. Why didn't I see it before? Tony was on to something with those damn eyebrows. David is our killer; we're looking for the wrong person. That was his plan all along."

"Yep," Abby continued, "murder his sister, frame her for his murder, take her fortune, and reinvent himself as a different man while we're all out looking for Danielle."

"That's good work, Abby!" He kissed her cheek and headed for the elevator. "I need to make some calls and head back to Berryville."

Abby sat on her stool, exhausted. Her momentary elation faded fast in the sudden stillness of her lab, and her thoughts returned to her injured friends. She suddenly jumped off her stool and chased after Gibbs, catching him as the elevator doors opened.

"Gibbs! Can I go to Fairfax now?"


	8. That's DiNozzo

Author's Note: Thank you for your continuing support! Please enjoy and offer feedback!

Also - FFN had some strange and frustrating issues over the weekend that coincided with the last installment. Because of that, I checked on my other NCIS story, called, "You Know, Inferno is Italian for Hell." I discovered that chapter 2 (the scariest chapter) had been replaced by a duplicate of a later chapter, and that chapters 3 and 4 had reversed! So, if you had read it recently and saw a duplicated chapter, please go back and take another look!

.

.

Chapter 8: That's DiNozzo

"Come on, Ducky," McGee begged from his hospital bed, "isn't there something you can do to get me out of here sooner? I was here all last night! I've got my cast, my pills, my tetanus shot, my hands are all patched up, and aside from them, well, and my knees, I feel fine."

The medical examiner firmly held his ground. "I am sorry Timothy, but I must agree with Dr. Prichard." Ducky nodded to the dark-haired doctor at his side. "Not only is he a pulmonologist but he has experience with blast lung injury. It is nothing to toy with and can take time to manifest. This is where you need to be."

McGee turned from Ducky to the lung specialist. "But didn't you say my chest x-rays were normal and those blood . . . gas . . . things were normal?"

"Arterial blood gases. Yes, that's true, Agent McGee," Dr. Pritchard agreed. "And that is why you're not being monitored more carefully yourself. We need to keep you under observation for another several hours, and if everything still checks out, then I'm sure we'll be able to discharge you this afternoon or evening."

"Shouldn't you both be helping Tony? He's the one who got hurt, not me," McGee argued.

Ducky shook his head. "Anthony apparently had a bit of a difficult time coming out of the anesthesia—"

"What?" McGee blurted out. "Why didn't anybody tell me? Is he going to be okay? You said the surgery went well!"

"Calm down, Timothy," Ducky soothed. "The surgery did go well. I can assure you that once he is out of recovery, we will most definitely be checking up on him. For now, he is surrounded by the people who can care for him best. Now do try to relax."

"Good advice," the lung specialist agreed. "I need to return to my office, but I'll check on you later when I come back to take a look at Agent DiNozzo's next set of lung x-rays. Fingers crossed."

"Thanks, Doctor. Sorry, I can't really shake your hand." Tim looked down at his bulky cast and bandages. "Or cross my fingers."

Dr. Prichard smiled in understanding and left the room.

McGee blew out a long, slow breath of air. "Ducky, has anyone called Tony's dad? I mean, I know they haven't been that close, but it's been better lately, and Tony's not just going to bounce right back from this one overnight."

"No, he most certainly is not. Jethro made the call this very morning, Timothy. Not to worry. Anthony's father will be coming, or I am quite sure Jethro will drive north to drag him down here. Now, are you sure you wouldn't like someone to call your family?"

"Not yet, Ducky. I'll probably call my sister or my grandmother when we know more about Tony. My family has a way of, you know, getting in the way."

"I do believe you have a visitor."

"I do? Who is it? Abby?"

"The one and only. I'll let her know she may join us."

Tim brightened up considerably when Abby hurried to his bed, boot buckles jingling, and enveloped him in an airtight hug. "I've been so worried, Timmy! You're a hero! You saved Tony's life!"

"He saved mine first, Abby." McGee found it hard to hug back with his cast on one arm and the annoying—and in Tim's mind, completely unnecessary—Heparin Lock on the other. Even so, the hug felt good, and for the first time in his memory, Abby released her hold before he did.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was pretty bad, Abby. Tony—his voice—he was in such pain, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. He tried to joke a couple times, but he just kept getting colder and weaker—and shaking all over. And the, uh, the blood . . . . He might not really want me to talk about it. I'm not sure _I_ want me to talk about it."

Abby took his hand, tears welling in her eyes. "Poor Tony. You did everything you could, McGee."

Tim took a shaky breath. "I . . . I . . . when I came back, Abby, from calling Gibbs . . . I couldn't feel a pulse." McGee's voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought he was dead." McGee blinked quickly.

Abby wiped away a tear of her own. "Oh, Tim . . . ." She leaned forward and hugged him again. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Ducky stepped forward from his silent vigil near the door. He cleared his throat lightly to remind the two of his presence. "Timothy, I've spoken to two of the surgeons who worked on Tony's leg injury. You see, Anthony's being in the slightly cooler basement actually helped lessen the muscle damage from the tourniquet. It's been determined that even a two to three degree reduction in muscle temperature makes a difference."

He moved closer to the bed. "Indeed, the practice of taking advantage of environmental cooling was employed by medics during the Second World War—they would expose the limb, thus cooling it, as opposed to keeping it under the blanket. Of course, it had the added benefit of reducing the possibility that the medical staff might overlook the tourniquet upon transfer. It reminds me of a time when I was in Normandy, and a young fellow on an outlying farm had chanced upon—but I'm getting off track, aren't I? It's been a long night for us all. What I'm trying to say is that, all things considered, it appears that the muscular damage to Anthony's leg at the tourniquet site is, itself, minimal."

Tim picked up on the medical examiner's tone and knew the real story—the Tony story—had only begun. "But . . . ?"

Ducky nodded, affirming McGee's suspicions. "The puncture and fracture site has proven to be quite a different story. However, Anthony has an entire team of vascular specialists, osteopaths, and nerve specialists—all working together for the best possible outcome. We just don't know what the ultimate outcome will be yet. But Anthony is alive, Timothy, thanks to your swift and bold actions."

"When will we be able to see him, Ducky?" Abby asked, swiping at another tear.

"I'm afraid that although Anthony is doing well, all things considered, his body is still in the very acute injury phase. His body has undergone a tremendous amount stress and will continue to respond with hormones and fluid retention to combat shock and use what little energy he has efficiently. He shall be quite ill and needing IV support, and although he's on broad-spectrum antibiotics, he still runs the risk of developing an infection in his leg. They'll be trying to keep him comfortable with painkillers and some mild sedation due to the combination of injuries."

Ducky paused and looked Tim in the eyes. "You're fortunate that the nearest bomb exerted more of its force upward, destroying the body, rather than outward towards you, or I'm afraid you'd both have more bodily injuries with which to contend."

McGee finally asked the unspoken question. "I know_ I'm_ breathing okay, but how about _his_ lungs, Ducky?"

"That is what I hope to find out very soon, my dear boy."

"Ziva must be going crazy, you know, not being able to be here," Abby commented. "She's not as tough as she pretends to be. She really cares about Tony, you know, more than she lets on."

A nurse entered McGee's room. "Excuse me, you're Dr. Mallard?" she asked Ducky.

"That is correct."

"I was asked to let you know that Mr. DiNozzo will be moved from Recovery to Intensive Care before noon."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Ducky watched Tony from behind the window in the intensive care arena. It was an improvement over seeing Tony quarantined at Bethesda under those germicidal blue lights. Even so, Tony looked small, weak, and ill; although he was dozing lightly for the time being.

Ducky sighed heavily. At least McGee had been cleared for release in the early evening hours. Not that he would go home, of course. Neither he nor Abby had seen Tony with their own eyes yet, and until they did, they had refused to leave the hospital.

Ducky started when Gibbs appeared at his elbow. "Jethro—how did you get past the nurse's—oh, I see." Gibbs had on a set of scrubs and booties, along with the identification badge of some doctor that had similar hair.

"Didn't ask. Why isn't his leg in a cast?"

"Since both lower leg bones were broken by impalement from a nonsterile object, his treatment began with thorough irrigation. They surgically removed the dead tissue before they fixed the bones with what are called intramedullary rods within the shafts of the bones themselves. The surgical incision was stitched, but both it and the puncture wound itself must drain."

Ducky looked back through the window at Tony, who had moved slightly and then settled back down. "Wound technology has come a long way, even since your very own close encounter with an explosive device, and those dressings you see will actually eat up some of the dead tissue and allow the wound to heal more effectively. Fortunately, Anthony did not require any bone or muscle grafts. The surgeons are quite optimistic, all things considered."

"How is the rest of him, Duck? Cuz he looks like hell."

"A bit unstable, I'm afraid, which is why they're keeping him here and not allowing visitors."

"Because of his lungs?" Gibbs asked.

"In part, yes. It is the combination of injuries that complicates his treatment options. You see, Jethro, there is a delicate balance between the risks and benefits of sedatives and pain control with the lung injuries that Anthony has sustained. The treatment team needs to carefully monitor his overall hemodynamics, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and so forth, while also trying to manage his pain without depressing his system too far. We do not want him to end up on a ventilator, if at all possible."

"And?" Gibbs urged, knowing his friend all too well.

"And even with careful monitoring, there's no prediction as to exactly when his lungs will show the full effects of the blast. We simply don't know. Young Timothy was also at risk, but as all signs suggest that he is doing well, he was released a short time ago. However, Anthony's x-rays reveal some of the 'butterfly pattern' that indicates blast lung injury, probably due to both proximity and, of course, his history with lung disease."

Gibbs bowed his head in thought. "Yeah, this is probably a first for this hospital."

Ducky raised his eyebrows. "It's a first anywhere, Jethro. To survive both pneumonic plague and such as serious blast injury, not to mention the nearly fatal impalement, is truly unique."

Gibbs looked up and formed his trademark lopsided smile. "That's DiNozzo."

A doctor approached the two men and held out his hand for Gibbs to shake. "Agent Gibbs," he acknowledged.

"Jethro, surely you remember Dr. Pitt, the infectious disease specialist who treated Anthony when he had his bout with Y. pestis."

Gibbs nodded.

"At my request, Dr. Pitt has been called in for a consultation due to his experience with Anthony's post-plague rehabilitation. In addition, the Fairfax team has a pulmonologist who has field experience with blast lung injury. A Dr. Pritchard. Together, they'll be able to settle on the best course of treatment. We're rather lucky to have access to such experts, but this is a chance no doctor would willingly pass up, what with the journal articles they'll be able to write . . . . Why, I remember a time—"

"Any chance I can get in there for a minute?" Gibbs interrupted.

Pitt nodded, remembering Gibbs' ability to get Tony to rally when he was critically ill before. He handed Gibbs a paper mask. "This time the mask is for his protection, not yours. Just don't tell anyone I said you could go in there. I don't technically work here." He smiled. "Go in with me, make it quick, and act like you belong."

Gibbs slipped up to Tony's bed while Pitt reviewed the newest numbers on Tony's chart.

"Hey, DiNozzo," he said softly.

Tony's eyes opened and searched the room. His gaze first settled on Dr. Pitt, then on Gibbs. He blinked and squinted against the fluorescent lights, the whites of his eyes still pink with irritation from the grit of the first explosion. "Gibbs? Brad?" He paused and licked his dry lips under the mask. "Kate died . . . right?" he rasped under the oxygen mask. "I . . . I feel strange. What happened?"

"You were in an accident, Tony, but you're getting better."

"Oh, wow . . . ." Realization washed over Tony's features. "Bomb, right? In . . . in the barn."

Gibbs nodded. "That's right."

"McGee?" he asked, his concern evident.

"He's fine, Tony. And Abby wants to see you. Ziva sent a message. She said you better beat this or she'll kick your ass." Gibbs saw Tony's mask fog up as he tried to respond, but it triggered a deep cough that left Tony nearly breathless.

"This sucks, Boss," he wheezed. He launched into another bout of coughing until he collapsed back into the pillow in exhaustion.

Dr. Pitt gestured that it was time for Gibbs to leave.

"You keep fighting, Tony. You've got people depending on you. People who care."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Gibbs and Ducky found Abby and McGee in the cafeteria. They looked up expectantly.

Gibbs slid into the booth next to Abby and addressed his injured agent. "You look better than the last time I saw you."

"Thanks, Boss—how's Tony?" he asked anxiously.

"He's holding his own," Gibbs assured. "Won't be up for visitors until he's out of intensive care, which will most likely be a few days. Time for you two to go home."

"Home?" McGee asked. "What about the case? We need to catch the bastard that did this."

"You need to rest, McGee, like it or not."

"Hear, hear!" Ducky chimed in from his seat across from Gibbs. "And so should you, Jethro, and you, Abigail. We are all operating on reserves."

"I'm going out to the crime scene to check on the relief teams that are processing the evidence. This has turned into alphabet soup: FBI, ATF, EOD. Ziva got a real mess out there, and I'm going to go clean some of it up. But _we_ get the first crack at Turner. _I _get the first crack at Turner."

"Do you think we'll ever catch him, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Already on his tail, McGee. I got a call before I came here," Gibbs continued. "Airport security spotted Danielle's BMW at Ronald Regan. They pulled footage from their cameras and tracked Turner to Southwest Airline flight 442 to Mexico. U.S. Marshal's office is sending a team across the border. They'll bring him to us once they have him in custody."

Gibbs turned to Abby and pointed across the table to McGee. "Will you please take this guy home?"


	9. Visitors

Thank you for the feedback and favorites! When someone marks this as a favorite, it's fun to look up their profile and read some of their other favs! I'm getting links to some great stories! Thank you!

.

.

.

CHAPTER 9: Visitors

For the three long days that Tony remained in the intensive care unit, Gibbs and Ducky took turns driving to Fairfax before or after work to see their missing team member and receive updates on his progress. As Tony's personal physician, Ducky was allowed to visit without question. And, since Ducky had pointed out to the vigilant nursing staff that Gibbs was, in fact, listed as Tony's next of kin, Gibbs was allowed brief visits as well. Each day Tony seemed a little stronger.

On Friday afternoon, Ducky received the phone call saying that Tony had been moved to a step-down unit, where nurses still monitored his condition with telemetry but without the constant observation provided in the ICU. Ducky broke the welcome news to the members of the MCRT and Abby.

Throughout the rest of the day, Gibbs noticed his staff checking their watches and hurrying through their paperwork in order to leave as soon as possible. He knew it would do them good to see that Tony, bad as he still looked, was safely among the living.

At precisely 5:01, Ducky appeared in the bullpen, his coat draped over one arm, and Abby on his other arm. "Jethro, I assume you'll be joining us on our trek to Fairfax to see our missing comrade in arms?"

McGee's eye opened wide and Ziva froze, unsure of how Gibbs would react.

Gibbs removed his glasses and turned off his desk light. "You're a minute late."

Ziva and McGee each breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to shut down their computers.

As Ducky waited at the elevator, he called back over his shoulder, "Let us meet in the waiting area on the third floor at the hospital. I would like to check on Anthony and have a word with his doctor before we descend upon him." The elevator doors opened. "Miss Scuito and I will be on our way."

"I get to ride in Ducky's Morgan," Abby gushed, her face beaming as the elevator doors closed.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Tension hung heavy in the Fairfax waiting area as Tony's surrogate family waited for Ducky to give them the go-ahead. Finally, the eldest member of the NCIS team joined them.

"Now, you must understand that Anthony has restricted visiting hours because he is still very tired and working hard to recover."

"Ducky?" Abby asked, her soulful eyes pleading. "Can we see him now?"

Ducky pursed his lips and nodded. "The doctor says you may see him briefly, no more than two at a time." He paused in thought. "Be aware that Anthony is still in considerable pain. There simply is no comfortable position for him—with his leg in the condition it's in and requiring elevation. I'm afraid that places our Anthony directly on his bruised and sutured back."

Tim winced in sympathy. He knew the state of Tony's back all too well. To have his body weight pressing down on the stitches . . . . McGee shuddered.

"Anthony is still lightly sedated and on rather strong pain medication, so you mustn't expect a lot of conversation from the poor lad, and be aware that movement of any kind will bring him considerable discomfort." His eyes flicked surreptitiously over to Abby.

Abby blinked back the wetness rising in her wide eyes. "Air hugs only, Ducky. I promise."

That brought a smile to the medical examiner's haggard face. "And he _must_ keep the air mask on, except to eat or drink." His eyes searched out Ziva and Gibbs, who had remained pointedly silent.

Ziva chewed on her lower lip as she studied McGee. Gibbs remained as difficult to read as ever.

"Jethro?" Ducky inquired, expecting him to be the first to see Tony.

Gibbs gave him a half smile. "Never been much of the hugging type, Ducky."

That elicited an entertained snort from Ziva.

McGee hadn't responded at all to the slight levity. If anything, he looked anxious to the point of jitters, and his neck had turned a bright pink that threatened to climb to his cheeks.

"McGee," Gibbs began, "go check on that partner of yours. He asked about you a couple days ago in ICU. Forgot to mention it."

McGee's head jerked up in surprise. "He did?" Because Gibbs and Abby had known Tony the longest, McGee had assumed they would be Tony's first official visitors. "You sure, Boss? Are you sure you wouldn't . . . ?"

"You questioning me, McGee?"

"No, sir—I mean Gibbs—um, Boss! Got it! On my way!" He stood up without further hesitation.

Abby took McGee's arm and led him toward Tony's room.

Despite Ducky's descriptions over the past few days, Tony's condition still shocked them as they entered his room. Tim had always hated hospitals. And now, even as he looked at his partner, cleaned up and bandaged, McGee still smelled and saw the blood-soaked clothing, heard Tony's screams of agony echoing in his mind. A small noise broke Tim from his disturbing thoughts.

Tony's eyes had opened to half-mast and closed again. He lifted his oxygen mask and took in a shaky breath. "What's new, Pussy Cat?" he slurred in a gravelly voice, clearly directing his comment to Abby, who smiled broadly in return.

"Oooh . . . sexy voice. It goes with your scruffy whiskers."

Tony smiled wanly, opening his eyes again. "No hug?"

"I promised Ducky no bone-crushers, so here . . . ." She very carefully leaned over the bed and kissed Tony's forehead, leaving a distinctive red SWAK mark. "Oops," she added quietly, not liking the visual reminder of the last time Tony had been in the hospital for an extended stay.

"S'okay, Abby."

Tony's face brightened visibly when his eyes found Tim. "McGee . . . ."

"Hey there, Tony, you look better than the last time I saw you, you know."

Tony's hand came up and he pointed a finger at McGee. "That guy there . . . I'll never . . . never call you 'McSqueamish' again. He . . . you . . . saved my life . . . and limb."

McGee couldn't speak past the unexpected lump in his throat. Instead of responding verbally, he blushed furiously and returned Tony's oxygen mask to his face. "I think you're supposed to keep that on."

Tony's entire body relaxed, a slight smile on his face. He breathed in deeply and whispered under the mask, "I owe you a new necktie." Then he drifted back to sleep.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Tony was still sleeping when Ziva's turn to visit him came. After five minutes of watching him lie still in his narrow bed, her own eyes grew heavy and she leaned her head back against the wall, intending to rest for just a moment. But her sleep-deprived body had other plans. She had become so exhausted over the past four days that her sleep launched into dreams—disturbing dreams—within minutes of falling asleep.

When Tony finally awakened, his hoarse voice was so soft that Ziva did not fully awaken. Her dream pulled her back in.

"What's wrong?" Tony asked again, his voice quiet, his speech slurred.

Ziva's head jerked froward, and she looked around the hospital room, disoriented at first, still waking from her nightmare. She could only assume she had called out and had awakened Tony. But when she looked at him, he looked as he had just minutes before. Maybe it had been her dream. Her nightmare. Her own traumatic past battling with her current emotions.

Ziva's dream had put her back in Somalia. She had seen Tony's battered and dehydrated body as he sat tied to the chair where Salim had kept him for those many days. He and McGee had come for her, but in her nightmare their plan had failed. Instead, the potent concoction that Salim had injected into Tony's vein proved deadly. For hours, she had seen Tony tormented. She saw him bite into his own lower lip to fight against the strong drugs and in order to not divulge Gibbs' location. Finally his tightly restrained cries of pain had diminished to whimpers as his life drained from him completely. His chin rested against his chest in a grim bow. When Gibbs' fatal shot had finally come, it had been too late. Too late for Tony.

The dream's impact shifted as reality set in. Ziva felt tears on her face, the hair around her face damp. Tony lay still, eyes closed, as he had been when she had inadvertently nodded off. She stepped to the sink and splashed water on her face, patting it dry with a rough paper towel from above the sink. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as her mind tried to sort her most recent nightmare from the truth.

Tony's words in Somalia that lifetime ago returned. "I guess I can't live without you," he had said. She hadn't dreamt that.

Yet here he lay, the possibility of his death once again taunting her, as fate again dangled Tony's life off a cliff. She sniffled and wiped a stray tear on her sleeve as she returned to the chair by his bed.

"Ziva?" The weak and gravelly voice returned, muffled under the mask supplying him with a rich mix of oxygen and air. Her own deep brown eyes met Tony's hazel ones, almost completely green today, barely open, but observant. "Tears? Why?" he asked again quietly.

"Why? What do you mean, why? You are hurt and I am scared."

"S'okay," Tony slurred, closing his eyes again.

"That is easy for you to say," she teased quietly. "You are on drugs. I am not. And I am not accustomed to feeling scared. I do not like it." She absently stroked the small part of the back of his hand free of needles or tape.

"S'nice . . . . 'm getting better," he mumbled as he returned to sleep.

She knew he had fallen asleep, but she still needed voice her thoughts. "I saw that pile where the barn had been, and I knew you were under there, hurt. I wanted to go to you, and I couldn't. I had to do my job, and I hated it. I hated the feeling. And when you came out . . . ," tears began to stream down her face again, this time unchecked, "and your body and face were covered, I . . . I thought you were dead, and I ached. Intensely. And then I realized you were alive, and . . . ." She shook her head and wiped away the tears, taking a deep breath and sitting up straight as she looked toward the door self-consciously. "I am glad you are alive."

Ziva now realized just how horribly she had treated Tony after Michael's death, and how deeply she had hurt him in Somalia. She knew he forgave her, even knew at some level that he loved her. But their friendship was complicated—so many false paths and mercurial intricacies. She knew that now—more than ever.

This was not her first nightmare since the explosion—or since her parting with Ray. She had been suffering a recurring dream, and she knew its roots were in her guilt and her fear of losing another person that she cared about. This time, Tony had discovered Ray's crime, as if the Michael story were repeating itself. In her dream, Tony confronted Ray, not Michael, in her apartment. She watched, helpless, while they fought. Only, Ray hadn't been drinking the way Michael had, and Tony did not gain the upper hand.

_Ray struck Tony full in the face and the NCIS agent fell backward onto the glass coffee table, shattering it. He writhed in pain on the ground, a large dagger of glass protruding from his calf, but he managed to aim his gun at Ray before Ray could take aim with his own. _

"_Don't do it!" Tony warned. "Put it down!"_

"_I can wait here all day," Ray said coolly. "You're bleeding to death." _

"_Put the gun down . . . ," Tony repeated, his voice faltering, his arm shaking. His aim began to falter, then the gun fell from his grasp._

_Ray lowered his gun and Ziva felt a moment of hope. _

"_See?" Ray said. "Bleeding to death."_

_Ziva watched powerlessly as Ray raised his gun and again aimed it at her partner's chest. He pulled the trigger, shook his head, and callously stepped over Tony and out the door._

_Ziva raced to Tony's side, her eyes full of tears. "Why did you not take the shot? You had it!" She pulled his upper body onto her lap and held him close, burying her face in his hair. "Why did you not take the shot?"_

_With only the ghost of a whisper, Tony simply replied, "I couldn't do that to you again."_

The vivid dream always left Ziva shaking and breathless when she woke. But this time, instead of the flood of relief that usually came at the end of the dream, she now awakened to the reality of the past and Tony's present condition: injured, ill, deathly pale, and so frighteningly weak. At least, unlike in her nightmare, he still had some life left in him. And at least she was here.

"Tony, Tony, Tony . . . ," she whispered.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

The following morning Ducky brought tea. He gave Tony a choice between aristocratic and fragrant Earl Grey and classic English breakfast tea.

"Of course, to make it correctly, Anthony, one really must begin by pouring boiling water in a tea pot. You must not neglect the importance of a tea cozy, either, because that is what keeps the pot hot. Now, a lot of Americans, my dear boy, actually think this is the water from which to brew the tea. But that is simply not so! One must pour that water out once the pot is fully warmed, and then begin the brewing process with fresh water that has just come to a full boil. The tea leaves must have time to fully expand and steep for a minimum of five minutes. This must not be cut short!"

"It's okay, Ducky, really. I'm not that picky with tea. Either is fine."

"Well, I have brought both, so you may as well choose. I did brew it properly at home, and I heated the thermos before transferring the tea, so it should be acceptable, given the circumstances."

Tony was in hell. He loved Ducky like some quirky eccentric favorite uncle, but this was a bit much.

"Surprise me."

"Well then, given the time of day, we shall start you with English Breakfast tea." He removed a china teacup and saucer carefully wrapped in a pale yellow, linen tea towel from his medical bag and poured Tony a cup of relatively hot tea.

"Now, off with the mask." He gently removed Tony's oxygen mask. "Inhale the steam, Anthony. It will do you good. Then sip and enjoy."

Much to Tony's amazement, the tea tasted wonderful. The heat soothed Tony's throat and warmed him from the inside out. He knew how much time and thought Ducky had put into the gesture, and it touched him more than he expected.

"Thanks, Ducky. I hear Gibbs came in last night, but I was sleeping."

"Yesterday was a big day for you. You were inundated with visitors for hours."

"Yeah. Big day."

"You seem low, Anthony. Rest assured that despite how you may feel at the moment, you are doing well. This will not last forever."

"I gotta tell you, Ducky, this is . . . this is . . . déjà vu all . . . all over again," Tony wheezed tightly.

Ducky's lip twitched slightly in compassion. "Ah, you are of course quoting the great Yogi Berra. It is, at that, Anthony, but at least bomb injuries and open fractures are something that our local doctors have some experience with . . . although they are usually incurred in combat, and not by a plague survivor, and, well, you know what I'm getting at."

Tony rolled his eyes and chuckled, which brought on another round of coughing.

Ducky deftly rescued the tea cup from Tony's hands.

"Damn sick of this. Hard . . . hard to believe that holding a teacup . . . and talking kicks my ass like this."

Ducky nodded slowly in agreement and placed Tony's teacup on his tray table, next to the thermos. He lifted the mask back over Tony's mouth and nose. "We really must put this back on, Anthony, to let your body get what rest it can. The alternative is much more invasive—and fraught with its own host of nasty complications with injuries such as yours."

"Trust me, Ducky, I'm not going on a vent." Tony adjusted the mask to a more comfortable fit.

"I shall return in an hour or so, and, if you are awake, we might share another cup of tea. Perhaps the Earl Grey. It is, of course, named after Charles Grey, the second earl in his line and Prime Minister during the reign of King William IV in the early 19th century. The legend is that the earl was given the recipe by a Chinese Mandarin with whom he was friends, and whose life he had saved."

Tony's eyes had closed.

"But I shall tell you more when you are feeling stronger. Rest."

"Thanks, Ducky."


	10. Bastard

Thank you for the comments, reviews, favs, and alerts! Thank you, thank you!

.

.

Chapter 10: Bastard, Part 1

.

Gibbs heard his door close upstairs and figured it was Abby or Ziva. Maybe even Ducky. But the sounds weren't quite right. Not McGee—way too allergic to sawdust. No way it was Palmer; he didn't have the nerve yet.

Gibbs waited to see who would come down the stairs never but never broke rhythm on the complex-grained piece of wood he was sanding. The slow and methodical act of perfecting its surface calmed him from the outside in and complemented the bourbon, which worked from the inside out. He didn't recognize the gait: Too heavy for Ziva. Too slow for Abby—and no jingles.

Finally, a whiff of men's cologne gave away the identity: Anthony DiNozzo Sr. The one person Gibbs had _not_ been expecting. He had seen him two hours earlier, charming a nurse into letting him enter Tony's room past visiting hours. He was charming, like Tony, but unlike his son, the elder DiNozzo seldom lived up to expectations.

_Dammit. _

And now he was invading the quiet sanctity of Gibbs' basement.

"Junior wasn't kidding. You really do leave your door unlocked all the time," he said smoothly.

"He tell you that tonight?" Gibbs asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

"Uh, no," Senior admitted, hesitating on the final step before fully entering Gibbs' domain. "No, he was having kind of rough time . . . ."

Gibbs paused and looked up at his intruder. "Ya think?"

For a moment the older man straightened up and squared his jaw, readying himself to snap back with glib comeback. But then his shoulders sagged and he looked down. He noticed the small cracks in the concrete floor of Gibbs' fortress. DiNozzo looked up to see lines of worry in the hardened agent's face and dark circles under his eyes as he resumed his sanding. Cracks in a different fortress. His gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle of bourbon on Gibbs' workbench. DiNozzo lowered his foot the final step to the hard cold surface of the floor, feeling his age despite the designer suit and Italian shoes.

Gibbs took a swig from his coffee mug; however, the room smelled of many things—none of them coffee. It smelled of sawdust and bourbon, sweat and memories.

DiNozzo picked up a scrap of wood from the bench. "Nice. Is this ash?"

"Olive," Gibbs answered succinctly.

"Ah. Is that a CD rack you're making?"

"DVD. Listen, DiNozzo," Gibbs began, tossing the sander onto the workbench, "is there a reason you came here tonight instead of staying with your son, who is having a pretty damn crappy week? Because you've just about run out of chances in my book."

"Listen . . . I . . . ," Senior stammered uncharacteristically.

"Because if you're not _up_ to being there for him, I can call any of half a dozen people who _are_, who always _have_ been, and always _will _be."

Tony's father looked deflated. "It felt so strange, Gibbs, seeing him there like that. It didn't seem real. You know Tony. He's always so damn full of life, so full of . . . ."

His mouth groped for the right words. "That . . . to see him there, helpless, all the tubes and bandages . . . . I . . . I think I felt actual physical pain! Thought I was having a heart attack. Guess I wasn't. Pretty obvious I wasn't now, looking back. I panicked. I ran outside and caught a cab. Ended up here."

"Aw, hell," Gibbs muttered. He hated sensitive crap. He unscrewed a jar of nails from the beam overhead and emptied the contents onto the back workbench. He blew the biggest pieces of bugs and grit out of the jar and then poured a generous portion of amber liquid into the makeshift glass. He handed it to his uninvited guest.

DiNozzo Sr. took a long pull of bourbon from the jar and let out a heavy sigh. "Gibbs, I haven't felt like that—this—since, well, since his mother died. He's so pale and he has the oxygen mask on. The nurse at the counter told me to wait outside his room because a wound specialist was changing the dressings on his leg. But he started coughing, then making these kind of choking, gagging noises, so I opened the door. I mean, I'm not heartless! The nurse moved to help him sit up, and she did something with his air mask. But I saw his leg, Gibbs . . . God, his leg. What that must have felt like—_still_ feel like? I feel a punch to the chest when I think about it. And in my own defense, I came here rather than going a lot of other places that crossed my mind."

Gibbs swallowed the last of his bourbon and stared in the bottom of the chipped mug for answers. Finding none, he poured more for each of them, not trusting his voice. He felt the same ache. The familiar ache. "It's called fear," he said simply, grappling with his own concerns for his senior field agent. "Be glad you didn't see it _before_ they fixed it."

"He's a grown man, but all I could see was a broken little boy. My boy. Is that what it's like, Gibbs?"

Gibbs tipped his head and smiled at the irony: he, Jethro Gibbs, was counseling someone on emotions. "Yeah, that's what it's like."

"I . . . I really don't deserve him, you know, not now. Not for a long time."

Gibbs ran his hand along the piece of wood he had been sanding, feeling for the slightest roughness. Satisfied, he turned it over. "No, you don't."

The older DiNozzo flinched as if physically struck, then he saw the ice blue eyes boring into his.

"But he deserves to have you there for him," Gibbs finished.

"So, why didn't you ever have kids? You, uh, you seem to be a bit more of a natural at it than I am."

Gibbs avoided eye contact. "I did. A daughter." He resumed his sanding without looking up.

"Passed away?" Senior asked quietly, studying the enigmatic man for clues.

"Murdered. A long time ago, along with my wife." He took another deep drink. "I wasn't there for them. I was overseas, fighting a different war. It's still no excuse. But there's no 'do-overs.' I live with my choices." He looked up at the older man again. "And you live with yours."

Senior nodded slowly. "I've been so foolish for so long. I guess some things are finally starting to make sense to me. I've been such a damn idiot!"

"Yes, you have," Gibbs agreed. "Idiot . . . selfish . . . bastard . . . ."

"I shouldn't have left him. It's as simple as that. If he wakes up and I'm not there—again—"

"Self-absorbed . . . egocentric . . . dumb-ass . . . ."

"God, I don't want to lose him."

Gibbs slammed his empty glass down on the bench. "Then go tell him, God dammit!"

.

Chapter 10: Bastard, Part 2

.

"We meet again, Dr. Kate's Sister," Tony said with only half of the normal dazzle in his smile. "We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk."

"Good morning. I heard you were out of commission again," she said with that soft, smooth psychiatrist voice.

"I come here for the red Jell-O," he said as he jabbed the Jell-O cup on his tray with his spoon. "Now, Bethesda, they specialize in green Jell-O and the best darn gritty instant potatoes in the whole greater D.C. area."

She shook her head and laughed lightly. "There you go with the humor again, Tony. Maybe you need to stop having these close brushes with death. Do you ever think about that?"

Tony stared at the Jell-O. "A lot, actually."

"How so?" she asked.

He pretended to look shocked. "What, no foreplay?"

She gave him what he could only refer to as the "Kate look."

"Oh, come on," he whined. "Play fair."

"Listen, Tony, I really didn't come by as a 'shrink.' I came by as a friend." She pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. "This time is different, isn't it?" It was more a statement than a question.

Tony pushed the tray away and focused on the thin hospital blanket's loose weave. "Yeah. I had some time to think about being dead. Dying. Dying in front of McGee, Gibbs, Ziva. I didn't know what it was like to be on the other end, you know, back when I had the plague. But now I know what it's like, you know, to see a friend die . . . up close and very personal. " He flashed back to Kate's death for a moment.

Dr. Cranston remained silent, sensing his thoughts. She set her own pang of grief to the side. She was here for Tony.

"I mean, the thought of dying definitely crossed my mind in Somalia; you probably read about that little side trip, but it felt noble, somehow. I was doing it for someone I lov—" he stopped himself and rephrased quickly, "for someone I cared a lot about."

"Ziva," she confirmed.

"Ziva," he whispered, his gaze remaining downcast.

"Even after the way she had treated you."

Tony's head shot up and his eyes flashed dangerously for a moment. "She was not thinking straight. She was, or at least she thought she might have been, in love with that creep."

"And love complicates everything, doesn't it?" Again with the smooth voice.

"Look, I shot and killed her boyfriend . . . right in her apartment."

"After he broke your arm and came at you with a dagger, as I recall reading in your file."

"A piece of glass, and he was drunk," Tony corrected, a little too hastily. She raised one eyebrow and he started to back pedal. "Okay, maybe he was planning to use it like a dagger . . . ."

"Well, I don't think he meant you any good. He was a trained Mossad assassin and he had already broken your arm," she emphasized, "and you warned him."

Realization washed over Tony's face. She was defending him. Him. Tony DiNozzo Jr.

He studied her face for sincerity. "Wow. You really are here as a friend, Rachel."

She laughed again. "So, you do know my name. And, yes, I really am here as a friend. But I'm still a shrink. I can't seem to help myself."

"You must have annoyed the hell out of Kate sometimes."

"We were close, but, yes, I could get under her skin like nobody else. Well," she caught Tony's eye contact, "like _almost_ nobody else could."

Tony stared up at the ceiling tiles, remembering his former partner. "Kate was great. Not a huge movie buff, but she was still great. I miss her. And she looked _hot_ in a wet t-shirt, too. "

Rachel rolled her eyes. "You are incorrigible!"

Tony raised his hands as far as the IV tubing would allow and smiled. "That is what I am! Finally, a woman who understands me!"

"May I make an observation?" she asked gently.

Tony rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Oh boy, here it comes . . . . About how I fall for women I can't have? Or is it the whole women and guns things again? Women that I'm not supposed to have? I know, I know, believe me, I know."

"I've noticed that a lot of people care about you very deeply, yet you keep up your barrier of humor."

"We've been down this road before, Doc. What can I say? I'm a funny guy."

"So, it's back to Doctor now, is it? When you are in pain and the humor is gone, you feel your great capacity to love, and maybe it scares you."

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Tony snorted.

"Neither can you, Tony. Neither can you. We're both true to our nature."

Tony sighed heavily and pushed himself up a little higher in the bed. He moved his stiff shoulders and cursed under his breath as many muscles protested.

"So, how are you doing?" she asked. "Physically."

Tony laughed and winced. "Breathing easier; got to lose the mask, at least some of the time." He gestured to the tube supplying oxygen through his nose. "But maybe hurting just a little right now," he admitted, fatigue showing in his eyes, "in too many places to count. Maybe more than a little."

Dr. Cranston snatched up the call button and depressed it before Tony could object.

"I think maybe someone ran one of Abby's voodoo dolls of me in a blender."

"Abby has voodoo dolls of you?"

"It's a New Orleans thing. You know it pretty much just means 'spirits,' right? Abby uses them 'For positive and healing purposes only.' She would never hurt me, Doc. Not a single drop of dark magic in that girl. Although, I do think she might have poked McGee's with a pin when she found out he ate her cupcake . . . . "

A nurse responded to the call button and after a brief word with Dr. Cranston and a look at Tony's elevated vitals, she injected pain medication into his port.

"Hey, don't I have a say?" Tony demanded.

"We've been over this, Mr. DiNozzo. Doctor's orders," the nurse countered.

"She's not my doctor," he countered, gesturing toward his visitor with his head. "She's a friend, right, _Rachel_?" he pressed.

"Dr. _Mallard's_ orders," the nurse corrected. "He's listed as your general physician. A little odd, given his normal 'patients,' but it's your call."

"Tyrants, all of you," Tony muttered.

"You'll feel better soon, whether you want to or not. It will speed your recovery." She smiled as she wrote in Tony's chart and then left the room.

"And how are you doing emotionally?" Rachel continued.

"Hey," Tony complained. "You did that on purpose. I get stupid on that stuff."

She smiled knowingly. "Then I suggest you talk fast and get this over with."

"Some friend you are."

"Seriously, Tony, how are you doing with this latest brush with death? You were hurt pretty badly."

Tony thought a moment, putting humor aside. "I think I'm feeling partly lucky, partly really pissed. Pissed that that murdering bastard did this to me to cover his own ass. Grateful McGee was there, thankful he wasn't hurt. Glad I'm not dead, thanks to McGee. Thanks to a few people, really. I think I'm doing okay. I don't feel PTSD-ish, if that's even a word. Kind of wish my dad would call, but that's pretty normal too."

She nodded in understanding. "Your father's not much of a family man, is he?" Another statement.

"Nope, but then again, neither am I, I guess. Just wish it was different sometimes."

Rachel Cranston stood up and placed her hands flat on the side of Tony's bed. "I think you're doing okay, Tony. And I think everything that's been damaged will heal in time."

Tony gave her a sidelong glance, his chin raised in defiance. "Is that your 'friend' opinion or your 'shrink' opinion?"

She patted his hand gently. "Both. Now, you get some rest."

"Yeah, go—quick! Before these meds kick in."

Tony lay in his bed, alone with his thoughts. Now that nobody was around to witness the show, he was looking forward to the relief the drugs would soon bring. He had thirty seconds of peace, then the unimaginable happened.

His father walked in.

"Heya, Junior."

Tony blinked in surprise, then looked past his father to the door. "No way. Did she put you up to this?"

DiNozzo Sr. directed his gaze back out the door. "Who? The babe that just left here? A little old for your tastes, but not for mine. Get her number?"

"No, but I think she's got yours. What's going on, Dad? She didn't call you and lay on a guilt trip?"

"Junior, I'm hurt," the older man began, and he felt the return of his old habits. The old games.

No more.

"No, Junior, I'm not hurt. You're hurt. You're hurt, and you're sick, and I want to be here for you. Finally. It took your boss calling me out. Called me a bastard."

Tony felt his cheeks redden. "Wow, Dad, I . . . I don't know what to say." Tony suddenly felt very awkward. Young. Exposed. Ready for those meds to kick in.

"Don't worry, Junior. He told me he was a bastard, too."


	11. DiNozzos

Many thanks for the private messages, reviews, favs and alerts! There's one more chapter after this one - thank you for reading!

.

.

Chapter 11: DiNozzos

.

Anthony DiNozzo Sr. sat in the uncomfortable vinyl chair next to Tony's hospital bed. Although the older man had prepared his long-overdue speech to his son—had even rehearsed it in his head over and over on the ride back to the hospital—now the words didn't seem necessary.

Being here was what mattered.

Tony began to cough, and Senior found himself leaping from his chair to get his son some water. He felt protective in a way he had really never experienced in his life. He didn't kid himself—he'd never be a great father—but then again, Tony wasn't a child any more. Part of him felt completely useless. The other part knew that this was his place right now: sitting with his son whether there was anything to say or not.

Tony adjusted the nasal cannula at his nose. "Man, this thing itches sometimes. And it dries the hell out of my nose—the one part of me that didn't hurt!" His hand came up a second time to pull at the nasal tubing, but Senior's hand gently intercepted.

"Easy, Junior. Your boss or Nurse Hatchet out there will kill me if I let you take that off."

"Dad," Tony asked, "what're you doing here? You know you can't really do anything. I may be here a while, too." He looked around the room at all the familiar landmarks that he had memorized, counted, and mentally sketched. "This is about as exciting as it gets. Tray, window, botanical picture, TV, tray table, twelve cards, four plants, two magazines, a robe, pitcher, water cup, juice cup, jar of Vaseline, yesterday's newspaper, and too many torture devices to count."

In that moment, the reality of his absences in all Tony's previous mishaps crashed down on Senior's conscience. "Making up for missed opportunities."

Tony stared at his father's face, and tried to sit up higher in bed, but didn't meet with success. "Dammit," he whispered.

His father shifted Tony's pillow and elevated the head of the bed. "Better?"

Tony nodded. "This is kind of weird, Dad. You really don't have to stay…."

"I want to, Junior."

"What a mess," Tony said quietly.

"What, us?" Senior jested.

Tony laughed lightly. "That too, yeah. But I meant my leg, my lungs. I hate this."

The elder DiNozzo nodded, seeing the lines of pain on Tony's face and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "How's your pain? The doctors said you really need to stay on top of it to get better."

"Don't worry, they attacked me before you got here. I can feel the meds starting to kick in already. I may not be a whole lot of fun tonight, Dad." He closed his eyes and tried to relax his body. "Leg's the worst, I think," he added. "Right now I have a few body parts competing for top billing."

"I bet," Senior added. "Listen, Tony, this, uh, this was a wake-up call for me."

Tony reopened his eyes and turned to his dad, a little irritation showing. "A _wake-up call_? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Dad, this isn't exactly the first time I've come close to dying. I know you think I'm overly dramatic, and I know you hate that, but it's true. I can't say I've had worse, really—well, yes, I can, actually. I beat odds that were 85 to 1, and, no offense, but all you did was send a get well card and a fifty dollar bill. You didn't even sign the card."

Senior fought the urge to defend himself. He hadn't understood the gravity of what Tony had been through before. Not until recently, when Gibbs had put it in terms that left no doubt. Tony had been through a lot in the past 10 years that Senior hadn't really bothered to find out about. He had been too wrapped up in his own life.

"You stood by me, Junior. You looked out for me, and I want to—need to—do the same for you. You don't need to be fun. You need to get well."

A nurse slipped into the room. "Could you step into the hall please, sir? I need to draw some blood."

Senior looked her over appreciatively and winked at his son. "I'll go get a cup of coffee." He saw Tony's shoulders sag in defeat.

"I'll be back, Junior." He saw the doubt in Tony's eyes and felt well-deserved guilt wash over him. "I _will_ be back, Junior," he repeated, resolving that _this _time he spoke the truth.

*****NCIS*****

When Senior returned, Tony's pain meds had clearly kicked in. "Hey, Dad . . . ," he drawled, "did you see that nurse? She was hot! Not as hot as a little ninja, but . . . hot! Not Nurse Hatchet . . . the other one. The phlebota . . . phelmbota. . . the blood-getter girl. Hot!"

Senior chuckled, a little amused at the dramatic change in his son's demeanor. "Feeling better, Junior?"

"Well," Tony said lazily, "the Happy Juice is definitely on boards. On board. And my dad came for a visit." He giggled and pointed to his father. "And that's funny for me to tell you, because you're him and now my leg doesn't feel like it's going to explode into flames. So I'm happy. I feel a little tipsy and I don't care. I'm fine. Fine. Love you, Dad."

"Can I get you anything, Junior? Do anything for you?"

"Yes. You can watch my apartment and feed my . . . feed my two very special fish. Don't drink them, you know, like Mom. No mint juleps."

"Okay, Junior, I can do that. I'll need a key."

"Mine's on my car keys, somewhere. McGee might know who has 'em. McGee's really smart. He knows everything. The angel fish is Wanda . . . you know, from _A Fish Called Wanda_. John Cleese, Jamie Lee Curtis . . . ."

"How about the other one?"

"Who, McGee? He's the smart one. His name is Fonda."

"Son, you're losing me here," Tony's father confessed. "McGee's name is Fonda?"

"No! The fish. The other fish is Fonda."

"Right. As in, Jane Fonda? Cute girl."

"No! He's a boy fish. Henry Fonda . . . . You know—_The Grapes of Wrath_,_ Mr. Roberts_—Gibbs has even seen _Mr. Roberts_, _12 Angry Men _. . . all classics. And there's another reason, too."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"He's Fonda Wanda." Tony laughed. He sank back into his pillow, sighed deeply, and immediately fell asleep.

Senior looked around the room and picked up the day-old newspaper, then settled back into the slick vinyl chair for the long haul. "Love you too, Junior."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Two days later Tony graduated to normal in-patient status and he could carry on actual conversations without becoming completely exhausted.

McGee came to visit again, creating a welcome break in the evening for Tony.

"So, Tony, who the heck is Joey Galloway, anyway?" McGee asked.

Tony winced as he pushed himself up higher on the pillows. "Joey Galloway? You never heard of Joey Galloway?"

McGee stared at Tony patiently. "You said Danielle, I mean David, you know, when we thought she, I mean he, was a woman .You said she—he ran faster than Joey Galloway."

"Yeah, this whole thing reminds me of Julie Andrews in Victor Victoria, but this was much more violent. Rated R at least. And not for sex."

"Joey Galloway, Tony." Tim reminded. "Who is he?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, right. Joey Galloway is only one of the fastest runners in NFL history. That's football, McGee, you know, football, the sport?"

"Ha, ha," McGee retorted dryly. "Yeah, I've heard of football."

"Come on, McGee! Joey Galloway! Tampa Bay Buccaneers? Seattle Seahawks? He's a former BUCKEYE, McGee! Ohio State! Eighth overall in the 1995 NFL Draft! Ah, the Buckeyes . . . ."

McGee's face remained blank. "Well, I thought you'd be happy when you found out that you were beat in the race to the barn by David Turner, a state champion track star—not Danielle."

"Thanks, McGee. I don't mean to sound sexist or anything, but I'm feeling better about being outrun by a male Marine than by a female—or almost female—food photographer!"

"You don't sound any more sexist than usual, Tony," McGee deadpanned.

"But still, I mean, _come on!_ He was wearing _pumps!_ Pumps! How did he do it? I'd break an ankle." Tony suddenly frowned, his face serious. "Wow, I guess that's a little ironic, given that, you know, I broke more than an ankle. How's the wrist, by the way? Good thing you're left-handed."

McGee held up his cast. "Yeah, it's fine. Itches some. I only need the cast on for a few more weeks."

Tony's mood sobered further, and he began to roll the edge of his hospital blanket absently, between his thumb and index finger. "I think I remember you coming in early on, when I was pretty out of it. Did you come with Abby?"

McGee nodded. "Yeah, you were kind of in and out, but we, you know, we wanted to see you."

"Did I tell you I owed you a tie or did I imagine that?" Tony asked.

"Well, yeah, kind of, but I wouldn't hold you, you know—"

"McGee, I owe you a tie." Tony looked McGee in the eye, and McGee looked like a deer in the headlights. "I owe you more than a tie, but I can actually _replace_ the tie."

"Okay, well, Tony," McGee began a little uneasily, "if you're saying you owe me for your life, then I owe you for mine, too."

"Well, you see there, McHumble, if I hadn't saved your life, then you wouldn't have been around to save mine, so my move was purely selfish. Yours, on the other hand, was purely _not_ selfish."

"And you think that makes sense?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"So . . . ."

"Yeah, so . . . ."

"So, I brought you something to drink. Rule sixty-nine, you know?" McGee handed Tony a brown paper bag with a bottle inside.

Tony's face brightened. "Jack Daniels?"

"Blue Gatorade. The nurse said you should mix it fifty-fifty with water."

"Awesome. Thanks, McGee!"

*****NCIS*****

The following morning Tony was ready to go home. In his opinion, anyway. Home, where his movies were, along with his big screen high definition television, his comfy sweats and soft Buckeye T-shirt, his white powdered doughnuts, his pillow, his bed . . . .

But the doctors weren't quite ready to release him.

Excruciating boredom had set in.

Tony thought it might actually kill him.

He glared at his breakfast. It simply stared back, in all its monochromatic bland, boring glory.

_Boring glory. _

_Boring glory. _

The words had an interesting lilt to them. Almost a roll. Abby would have fun with that.

_Boring glory. _

_Aw, hell!_ He slammed his fork down on his tray.

_Hel! Hel! Hell!_

His stitches itched and pulled at his back. His muscles protested from lack of use. And his leg had a constant mild to moderate throb. At least they let him use the toilet now. No more catheter. Someday, if he survived the boredom, he'd even get to take a real shower. He tried to remind himself how lucky he was to be alive. To breathe. To have two legs.

He tried a sip of the thin instant coffee they had finally let him have. He almost gagged. "Ugh!" he yelled. "I'll give anything for a decent cup of coffee!"

"What will you give, DiNozzo?"

Gibbs' impeccable timing never ceased to amaze Tony. And he immediately felt better. A real live visitor. "Hey, Gibbs, nice to see you. Nice to see anyone, really. But extra nice to see you. Is that real coffee?"

"This one is," Gibbs held up the one in his right hand. He held up the other cup. "This one isn't. It's your dark-Italian-roast-sweetened-foo-foo-nut-crap."

"Seriously, Boss? How did you sneak it past the nurse?" Tony reached eagerly for the proffered cup.

Gibbs smiled devilishly. "I told her they were both for me."

"She bought that? No way."

Gibbs tipped his head toward the door. "And I might have brought one for her, too."

Tony's eyebrows shot up. "The red-head, right, Boss? You sly dog. Did you ask for her number?"

Gibbs smirked and took a sip of his coffee. "Didn't have to," he quipped.

"Don't ask, don't tell. I know, I know. Wait, what?"

Gibbs turned his cup toward Tony and showed him the number written in pen on the side of his cup.

"Don't throw that cup away, Boss."

Tony held his own coffee in both hands and inhaled slowly, and as deeply as he could without eliciting a cough. He eased his nasal cannula down below his chin.

Gibbs scowled.

"Just while I drink the coffee, Boss, I promise. I really want to enjoy this. The rubber hose up my nose ruins the whole coffee experience."

"Drink," Gibbs ordered. One of the things he admired in the younger man was his open expressions of pleasure. Didn't matter if it was fresh coffee, nice clothing, a great steak, or a beautiful woman; when Tony DiNozzo liked something, the whole world knew.

Tony sighed, enjoying his favorite hot drink. "I guess it's not all bad. I mean, my dad is actually trying to help. I say 'trying' because I'm a little worried about having him at my house. He'll probably drive me crazy."

Gibbs nodded, knowingly. "Probably will."

"But at least he's making an effort, and that's a first."

"He loves you," Gibbs offered sincerely.

"Yeah, well, he's also a DiNozzo, and we don't seem to do 'love' real well."

"People make choices, Tony. He's making one now."

"Yeah, he is. Thanks, Boss."

"Hey, U.S. Marshall's office called."

"Oh yeah?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "They got him?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yep. Spent too much money too fast down in Cabo. They picked him up last night. He'll be here by tomorrow afternoon."

"Don't go easy on him, Boss." Tony knew it didn't need to be said. That was one interview he wished he could watch.

Gibbs smiled dangerously and took a long drink of his hot, black coffee. "Do I ever, DiNozzo?"


	12. Damages

Author's Note: Here is the final chapter. I'm sad for it to end, but that is the fate of both stories and episodes. Thank you for the encouragement, feedback, favs and alerts! And another huge thank you to Lisa W., my copy editor/beta reader extraordinaire!

.

Chapter 12 Damages

.

.

David Turner sat alone in the NCIS interrogation room, where, for the last two hours, he had alternated between sitting and pacing. Gibbs entered and sat in the chair across the table from his suspect. After several minutes of cold silence, Gibbs opened the folder he had brought with him. He looked at a photo and shook his head then placed the picture down on the table. He slid it over to David. "Your handiwork."

"What's that supposed to be?" Turner challenged.

"That?" Gibbs asked, pointing to the color photo. "That's what's left of your sister."

Turner turned away from the picture in disgust. "I never had a sister."

"Okay, then, your brother."

Turner remained silent.

"Why'd you do it? The money?"

"Do what, Agent"—he leaned forward and squinted—"oh, excuse me, _Special Agent_ Leroy Jethro Gibbs?" He snickered. "Seriously? And what exactly is it you think I did, Leroy?"

"Oh, we know what you did. We want to know why."

Turner picked at a fingernail.

Gibbs licked his lips and stared Turner in the eyes. "You ever see combat, Marine?"

Turner moved slightly in his chair. "Not yet."

"Not yet? Your career as a Marine is over, Sergeant. Your records say 'no.' No, you haven't. So, was your sister was your first kill? Or have you killed before?"

"I never had a sister," Turner repeated, but his tone had changed.

"Never saw combat. Never fought a person who wasn't fighting back. You like them defenseless."

Turner's face reddened. "Dani wasn't really a woman, if that's what you mean!"

"What exactly was she, Marine?"

Turner, jaw clenched, crossed his arms. "A freak."

Gibbs opened his folder again. He pulled out two graphic color images of Tony's leg, taken in the emergency room. He placed them on the table in front of his suspect. "This is your work, too."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Turner's voice had a tremor.

"You know what caused _that_ injury?" Gibbs looked at the one-way window and gestured for someone to join him. "Let me show you."

Gibbs pulled the photos back and return them to the folder. Seconds later the door opened and McGee stepped in, holding a piece of rebar in his left hand. Gibbs rose and snapped his fingers twice for the rebar. McGee placed it in Gibbs' outstretched hand.

McGee stood at the door, feet shoulder-width apart, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he stared at the suspect.

Gibbs held up the rebar. "This is what rammed into my agent's leg. Because of your bomb." Without warning, Gibbs swung the rebar in the air and crashed it down on the table in front of Turner.

Turner leaped back, tipping his chair backwards.

"Sit down!" Gibbs yelled. He grabbed the chair and slammed it back down at the table.

Tim hadn't flinched; hadn't blinked.

"You aware of what time it is, Sergeant?" Gibbs said, his tone once again calm. Scary-calm.

Turner returned to his chair, his eyes wary. "They took my watch."

"It's after hours," Gibbs answered. "You know what that means?"

Turner shifted his eyes to the rebar and shook his head.

Gibbs remained at Turner's side— intentionally too close for comfort. He leaned down to Turner's ear and whispered, "It means I'm willing to stay as long as it takes, _Marine."_

Turner didn't move.

Gibbs lowered his whisper further. "And nobody will be able to hear you."

Gibbs could see the perspiration on Turner's forehead and continued, "We have all the proof we need. You left an evidence trail wide enough to drive a Humvee through. We want to know _why._ Why you killed Danielle. Why you nearly killed my agent."

Gibbs stepped back from the table. "Tell him what we got, McGee, before I hit something else with this rebar."

McGee moved to the table. "You consider yourself a man, Turner?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I take it your blood is not full of synthetic female hormones?"

Turner wiped sweat from his temple, where it threatened to drip down his face.

"Your blood is different from hers. So are your fingerprints. You left lots of evidence in Danielle's car that was found on your grandparents' property where the tunnel ended. It's over. But, like my boss said, we want to know why. You might say we're funny that way." He looked over at Gibbs who still held the rebar in his hands, ready to strike. "Well, _I'm_ funny that way. He's never funny. Tell us about the money."

Turner finally broke. "You know what she was planning to _do_ with that money?"

Gibbs seethed.

"Tell us," McGee prodded.

"She was going to give it away! Give it away! Over a _million_ dollars!"

"Her damages, her money," Gibbs stated. "Sounds fair enough."

"I was damaged too! Nobody ever cared!" the man stood up, agitated.

"Sit down," Gibbs said again sharply. His eyes flashed with anger.

Turner dropped back onto the chair. "Half that money should have been for me! They favored Danielle our whole life!"

"They?"

"Our parents, who else? 'Danielle this,' and 'Danielle that.' 'David watch out for your sister.' 'David, take care of Danielle.' It was finally her turn to watch out for _me_. She didn't even send me a birthday card. Just took her money and spent the evening with her girlfriend. She was supposed to be my twin! My twin _brother_! Closer than anybody! Truth is she didn't even know who she was. So she decided to donate all that money. Not to me, no! No, she was going to give all of it to some damn gender education group, because she said it was 'more complex than the so-called experts think'! Have you ever heard anything so ungrateful?"

"So you killed her. And blew her to kingdom come when my men got close. Damn near killed one of them, too." Gibbs tossed the rebar to the floor and lowered his voice, his words crystal clear. "You're no Marine. You're a disgrace."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

McGee entered the bull pen, walking past Tony's empty desk with a strange feeling. He sat down at his own desk and smiled over at Ziva, who returned his smile.

"I miss him, too," she said. "Although, once he gets back, we will never believe or admit that we ever felt like this."

McGee laughed. "True," he said, but he knew different. He remembered Tony's difficult return from the plague and how he and Kate had gotten mad at DiNozzo the day he returned. That had been right before Kate died. Life had gotten a lot more complicated that week. Less innocent. And now Tony had nearly died again.

At least this time, McGee knew Tony had protected him from the worst of the blast, and that he, in turn, had kept Tony alive, despite the odds. Even when the pranks and the name-calling and the teasing returned, those facts would temper their relationship. "Ducky said Tony gets to go home soon. Maybe, even tomorrow."

McGee looked down at a package on his desk, then up at Ziva.

"Tony asked me to bring that to you. He said he wanted you to know that he picked it out, even if he had his father pick it up, and that you deserved it."

McGee opened the wrapping at one end and slid a box out. He removed the lid.

"Oooh, nice," Ziva chimed in, noticing the quality of the fabric and stitching. "Italian, yes?"

McGee nodded as he looked in the box and set his eyes on a four-leaf clover silk tie. "Ferragamo. Nice," McGee agreed.

He opened the small card enclosed with the tie. "I, Anthony DiNozzo Jr., _now_ being of sound mind and mending body, do solemnly swear that you, Timothy 'Tim' McGee, are a good agent."

Ziva sat on the corner of Tony's desk and faced McGee. "He is fiercely loyal to you, McGee. I hope you know that."

"He's pretty loyal to you too, Ziva. I mean, you weren't here when you were gone . . . ."

"That is true," she laughed. "I was not."

"I guess that sounded pretty stupid. I just meant that, well, those words he said to you about why he had to come, you know, to Somalia. I hope you know they were true."

"He was on truth serum, McGee," Ziva reminded him.

"Yeah, I guess he was."

"Perhaps we all have something to learn from Tony." She silently cursed herself for saying the words aloud. "But if you tell anyone that, I will deny it, and then I will have Abby kill you and leave no evidence."

"Why not just kill me yourself, then?" he pushed.

"Too obvious." Ziva grinned and left the room, leaving McGee wondering what on earth had just happened.

.

*****NCIS*****

.

Anthony DiNozzo Senior again found himself in Gibbs' basement. But this time, the feelings were more cordial.

They had been drinking.

A lot.

"So, I'm not here neglecting my fatherly duties, Gibbs, just so you know."

"I know."

"I mean, I'd love to spend the evening with Ziva myself, but it's not in the cards, you know?"

"I know."

"I mean, I don't think there's anything going on between those two, but maybe there should be, if you know what I mean. But three's a crowd. She's cooking for him, I know that much. Beyond that I don't ask too many questions."

"Good. Don't." Gibbs retreated into a corner of the makeshift shop and opened a cupboard. He pulled out a box and removed two cigars. He handed one to DiNozzo Senior and bit the end of his own, lit it, then handed over the lighter.

Senior placed the cigar under his nose and inhaled deeply. "Nice. Cuban, I assume?" He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sterling cigar clip and caught Gibbs' amused expression. "A gift—from a lady friend," he added.

Gibbs chuckled and shook his head. "Of course it is."

"What's the occasion?"

Gibbs took a sip of bourbon and puffed appreciatively on his cigar. "Congratulations. You're becoming a father."

Senior remained silent a moment, admiring the cigar's deep, rich aroma. "I guess I am, at that!" He held his drink up and Gibbs did the same, clinking glasses in the shared solitude of Gibb's basement.

"Now, don't screw it up."

.

*****NCIS*****

.

"No, really, Ziva, I can't eat any more. I'm stuffed." Tony leaned back on his sofa. "Your marinara sauce was incredible. The whole dinner was incredible."

Ziva looked at Tony carefully, reading the fatigue in his hazel eyes. She noticed how he tensed up and held his breath when he shifted position, trying to get comfortable. "You need rest. I will do the dishes. Then, if you are up to it, we can watch the end of your movie."

Tony grabbed her arm as she started to rise. "Let's just watch the rest of the movie now. The dishes can wait."

"At least let me get your pain medication. You have not had any since I arrived, and that was hours ago."

"They just knock me out, or worse. I'll take one when you leave, I promise."

"Well, if you promise," she gave in. "Let us just sit a minute. Nice movie stand, by the way. New?"

Tony smiled. "Yeah. It's Italian olive wood."

"Beautiful."

Silence hung heavily in the air, and Tony looked at Ziva, her expression now somber. "Uh, oh . . . I know that look."

"Tony . . . McGee told us what you did. How you protected him—"

Tony interrupted her as a pink flush began to creep up from his neck. "Look, I fell. I fell on McGee. _He's_ the one who saved _my_ life. If he hadn't done what he did, with the, uh, well, you know, the tourniquet, and getting help, I'd be as dead as Danielle Turner. The one to be commended here is McGee. Don't let anybody take that away from him."

Ziva smiled and she nodded her understanding. "You are a good man, Anthony DiNozzo Jr."

"And you are a good woman, Ziva David."

She pulled her end of the coffee table closer, being careful not to dislodge the pillows from under Tony's leg. She settled back onto the couch and took a sip of wine.

Tony clicked the movie back on and let Humphrey Bogart's distinctive voice soothe him into a trance. He leaned his head back into the soft leather of the couch, eyes closed, with a contented smile on his tired face. "See? This is way better than drugs . . . ."

The end.


End file.
